CHAPTER 20: I was doing some work with Page99.com and so that is why some of this is indented differently. Didn't have the awake-i-tude to put it back right before posting tonight. I might be editing this chapter later on, but like it alright so far.
It was amazing how filthy, how diseased, the slums of the kinto-shah district were compared to the places Jallin had been before. Even the light that crossed their path seemed infected somehow. A cough from somewhere, perhaps the last gasp of one of the corspes showing up in alleyways or under buildings, found its way into the street like an unpleasant stranger. Even the wind swirled in a surly way, the dust hanging its head, keeping to itself.
A few laughs came from the gambling houses, the entertainment parlors, the places where people sold their souls.
Jallin actually welcomed the chance to get out of the street. He worried Stasser might show up again, and this time do worse things to the three of them, not just to him. A raig comes every night it can find food, and so do ragamuffin thieves.
But it was Kneelday, and on Kneeldays the streets were quiet usually. Even the very poorest were usually in some temple or another, praying for a coin to give back to their gods. And today was the day for the Sharing of Trust and Bread, the supper served every Kneelday at the house of Sarkoshia.
Jallin took Eja’s hand and stood in the front room of the temple. His eyes always went upstairs, into the darkness that lurked there at the top like someone waiting and watching.
A smell was always here, too. The humans were the ghosts in this place, and the real inhabitants were the smells and the dark. It was a smell of snot and blood and a faint trace of dung somewhere.
Counselor Dursus wasn’t there to meet them, and Jallin was grateful for that, but someone dressed in a loosefitting robe came wandering into the vestibule. He was an older man, already nearly skeletal, and a thin trail of drool found its way down to the floor of the ‘temple.’
“Hurga? Is that you, good servant Hurga?” the old man said. “And you’ve brought them? These are the ones, the blessed ones?” The old man’s hand found its way out of the robe, like a bird flying out from under an eave. The man’s skin was white, the color of an egg. Somewhere under his voice was a rasping growl, as though his lungs were full of grinding, shifting rocks.
“Yes, yes, Mr. Golgottia, these are the two blessed children. Have you seen either of the two counselors?”
“No, no. Counselor Dursus is down in the hospital. He is taking care of the missus down there. She will not be with us much longer. It is her time to go and be in the Waiting Lands. You should go down and see her, go down and watch her passing. I’m so proud of her, so proud. You blessed children should go and see her. She’s ready to go. Ready. Trochaya has her at peace. He’s taking her hand, pulling her out of that old body of hers, breath by breath, Dursus says. I told her she’s got nothing but peace from here on, peace and love and a home forever and forever. Oh, how wonderful Trochaya is to us, how wonderful he is.”
Eja squeezed Jallin’s hand and the two of them backed away. The old man leveled his eyes on them again, the movement apparently drawing his attention. His fingers, as dry and cracked and dirty as turds in the sun, came towards them.
“Oh, the blessed children. These, these are the children? These are the children, the ones we’ve been praying about? The children? The blessed children?” His feet hissed as he moved towards them, and Hurga wouldn’t let them back away.
“Why’s he talking like that?” Eja said whispered. She’d learned to whisper among kinto-shah.
Jallin had no answer, and all Hurga did was scowl. The old man didn’t even seem to notice.
Hurga pulled Jallin closer, and hissed at him to be respectful and allow this old man to paw over them both, which he took great advantage of. His hands landed each in the children’s hair, and like cooked eggs, they slid along Jallin and Eja’s cheeks. He wheezed as though seeing them was like seeing his god incarnate. And he smiled up at Hurga like they were her children.
“Oh, look at them. The boy,” he looked at Jallin with glassy eyes, “and the girl,” now his gaze turned toward Eja. “Which is which?” he asked Hurga.
“That I can’t tell you,” said Hurga, nodding and laughing. “We don’t know everything, do we?”
“Which is which?” Jallin started. “I’m the boy. Don’t you know a boy when you see one? Look at her, she’s a girl. You said it yourself, you daft….”
Hurga kicked Jallin square in the shin with a pointed toe like a dagger and Jallin yelped and leapt backward.
“No,” the man said, laughing at the display of discipline, “I know you’re the strong, good lad. I know that.” His hand found Jallin’s hair again. He must have thought Jallin was a dog. “No, blessed child, blessed child, what I….” And his throat gave out and he coughed. Or rather, he sort of shook while peculiar popping, gurgling, snorting noises came out of him. His hands retreated to his face, but then he looked at Hurga and let them drop again. “No, I mean….” He started to say, but it was apparent he couldn’t finish whatever it was he had in mind.
“Well? I’m sorry, but what did you mean? What did you mean, which is which?”
“Nothing you won’t find out, I’m sure,” Hurga said. She attempted to push Jallin past the old man as he went and leaned a hand against the wall. “Mr. Golgottia, perhaps you should go and be with your wife once again. Especially in these last moments. But did you say Counselor Yubrin was here, or not.”
The old man nodded, and smiled, but rapsed away, his lungs apparently trying to leave a sinking ship.
Like a wayward bat, the man’s hand flew above his head and went in a circle.
“Is he out? Did he go on a mission?”
The old man nodded and made his way into the supper room to sit down in a chair against the wall. He put both his hands on his knees and gasped.
“What was he talking about?” Jallin asked. “What did he mean, which is which?”
“I told you, you’d find out. In fact, that is precisely why we are here. The mess you made of Master Noshó’s greenhouse has decided the matter.”
“He told you what happened, didn’t he? It was an accident.”
“An accident that just so happened to knock down only one bottle of medicine, and which just so happened to be this medicine for Eja which just so happened to be giving her stomach cramps and you didn’t like it. I know what goes on. I know what you tried to do. Don’t think you fool me. It’s a miracle Counselor Dursus didn’t draw your papers and have you thrown in the pits somewhere. I’m sure you’d fetch a fine price at the markets.”
Jallin felt his nose wrinkle at the woman, as though her words smelled bad. “You’re a bitch,” he said.
“And you’re one of the blessed children. If I’m such a bitch, then how’s that for you? I may have saved your life here, so be quiet about it.”
“Saved our lives?” Eja muttered. “What…?”
But now more of the trochiabites were coming into the hall. Like insects finding their way into a rotting corpse, they seemed to just appear. Perhaps the old man’s coughing had summoned them: a balding kinto-shah with angry red claw marks and scabs on the exposed bits of skin; a woman with nasty, slimy-looking hair, wide bulging eyes, and thin with bones jutting against her skin like knuckles in a glove; a couple of urchins, one of which Jallin recognized as having robbed him, and all coughing and white as sheets. Behind these came two or three more of these pathetic creatures, only a few of which were healthy.
They acted like Jallin and Eja were a captured treasure of lost Morrigar in the east. They all gawked. Some of them whispered and some of them openly accused Jallin of being ‘blessed by Trochaya’ or ‘touched with grace,’ or ‘the ladder’s rung.’ Hurga only partly shielded Jallin from this attention, and she held Eja in front of herself so that everyone could get a look at her. Eja coughed, but this didn’t send any of them away.
Finally, Hurga announced that they would go upstairs to wait on Counselor Dursus, and she pushed Eja and Jallin through the teeming mass of diseased creatures and up the stairs into the darkness above. The Trochiabites shook hands and smiled at each other. Some of them flashed toothless grins at the two children.
“What’s going on?” Jallin asked. “What is all this? They’ve ignored us up until now.”
“You’re blessed,” Hurga said, but not to Jallin. She looked at Eja, whose hand she held.
“But what does that mean?”
Hurga waited until Eja asked more sweetly with her raspy voice.
“It means Trochaya has chosen you two.”
“For what?”
Again, Hurga pretended not to hear. Jallin squeezed Eja’s hand and she asked.
“For his purposes. I brought you here today to be anointed. Counselor Dursus says you must be anointed. You are among the blessed, and you have a great purpose.”
They stood in the dark hallway, and the group at the bottom of the stairs drifted into a side parlor.
Counselor Dursus appeared at the bottom of the stairs. He almost went into the parlor, but Hurga coughed and drew his eyes.
He skipped up two creaking steps at a time and was there. A peculiar grin appeared on his face in the darkness of the hall. Then, he apologized and reached into a pocket and drew out a nearly blinding light. He put the sunstone in a sconse on the wall and now Jallin noticed a few doors in the wall.
“It is good to see you all,” was all he said before making his way down the hall ahead of them towards the door at the very end. “I have been waiting for this moment for a long time, you three.”
“What’s happening? What is all this? What’s going on?” Jallin asked.
“Something very special, believe me. Jallin, have you ever wanted to know how to read?”
The words felt like a punch to Jallin’s chest. As though to assure it had the effect he wanted, the bearded man turned a shaded face towards them. “Didn’t you tell your Aunty you wanted to learn how to read, Jallin?”
“She’s not….” Jallin looked at the woman’s boney, stern face. “I did tell her…but…she’s not….”
He didn’t try any further to answer.
“You know I read. Quite a bit, actually. I read, now let’s see,” he counted on his fingers, “well, I read fluently in in Gollithian, which is Kunjelic or Thortinian, and Lel-Kinshala, Sarkoshian, if that’s a language, and Morrigari. So, how many is that? I guess that’s four. Sarkoshian mixes a few of them together, so it really doesn’t count I guess. Its written language is entirely Morrigari, no matter what kind of paint the emperor puts on it.” He winked, and for a moment Jallin almost thought he had a grandfather of some sorts.
He pulled out a key from his pocket and opened the room beyond. Replacing the key, he took out yet another sunstone and put it in a peculiar looking bowl-shaped mirror and it lit the entire room at once. All around a desk in the middle where the light bowl was, stacks of books grew from the floor like strange leafless, branchless trees. Scrolls sat where wine bottles should have in a wine rack on the wall.
Jallin could not help but be impressed. His thief eyes had already surveyed everything in the room. Here, he could have found his alnomor, a life giving fairy few people have ever found, but what thieves used as a symbol of that final take, that final grab, off of which a person could live forever and never have to steal again. Stasser told him, and he was forever looking for it, his alnomor.
He must have stared for a while, because Counselor Dursus was laughing a little at him.
“One day, Jallin, all this is yours. Would you like that?”
Jallin deflated. He faced Counselor Dursus. He didn’t like to be teased.
“It is not a joke, my friend. I have been waiting for you. Did you know that?”
“I am not a fool, old man,” Jallin said.
“Of course not, or you would not be standing here.” With a flourish of his robes, the old man sat down behind the desk. He looked at Jallin and gestured at the area in front of the desk. Hurga took one step toward him, and the counselor held up his hand to stay her. She put her hands on Eja’s shoulders. “Your coming was foretold to me. You and I have a purpose in this world. Yours greater than mine, and mine to find people like you, and…” with a wave of his hand, he added, “and Eja here.”
“You told me I was supposed to be putrified…or something.”
“Yes, but not putrified. The word is ‘purified,’ Eja. She’s so terribly bright. You both are, but you just have no idea. I’ve had Hurga here keep me apprised of all that goes on in that little compound of Noshó’s.”
“A spy?”
“No, nothing like that. A messenger, merely. Hurga is my servant, and I arranged for her to live there with them. She is much like you, Jallin. She, like you, is a Cloth.”
“A what?”
“Your sister, like only a few of our other members, is a Sponge.”
“Cloth? Sponge? What are you talking about?”
Counselor Dursus looked around the room, stood up. From a nearby stack of books he selected one off the top. He let it drop on the desk with a thud and he flipped back and forth through the pages. Jallin couldn’t help himself; he leaned forward to see what it was written on the pages. He saw pictures of things, people, and all manner of scribblings.
“You don’t know anything about me, really, do you Jallin?” Counselor Dursus asked while continuing through the book. Jallin shook his head, but realized the man hadn’t noticed. “Do you?”
“No,” Jallin said simply. He heard Hurga grunt behind him, but he added no ‘sirs,’ or ‘counselors’ to his answer. He knew Hurga would not bother him just now, so he’d get away with what he could.
“I lived through the Water Sickness. When I was a boy about your age, we had an outbreak of the Water Sickness. Its real name was Claggra, because it made you drown on your own fluids inside, and I’m sure Claggra has something to do with fluids or some such. They say it spread in the water, so they called it Water Sickness. Well, you can imagine, can’t you?”
“Imagine?” Jallin asked. Neither Hurga nor Eja spoke now. Jallin felt strangely elevated.
“Imagine how it was. People getting sick. It, like this Bloodlung that took your mother, started with a coughing and gagging, like your sister has now, but it grew much, much worse than this has been, if you’ll pardon me for saying so.” Jallin wasn’t sure if Counselor Dursus had said anything offensive, except that he mentioned his mother. “After a while, you started coughing until stuff came up in your throat. It was like coughing up thick water, or that’s what it looked like, like syrup or something, but clear. Have you ever had syrup, Jallin?”
“No,” Jallin said. “At least, not on purpose.”
“What?”
“I stole some bread once, and I think it had a bit of syrup on it.”
“Irrelevant really, but you’ve seen it? You’ve seen wum jelly? The Water Sickness was like your throat filling up with Watery Jelly. I saw people dying from it. And my parents were doctors in the Mercelian hospital. They tried to cure these people. Then, they caught it themselves. They died about a month later, and they, like your mother, couldn’t make arrangements for me. They weren’t prepared for this. They believed in Alterrus Azurrus, the Mercelian god, and they believed they would get well, that they were doing their god’s work so how on trith would he allow them to die? Their throats closed up, and they spent most of the rest of their lives coughing up their fluids. But my parents were not without friends, and an Aavemancer named Kelést, a Selahkan from Lower Terrilia, adopted me. He happened to be quite a scholar at the university, but he was also a secret worshiper of Trochaya. He taught me how to read and write in my first language, Morrigari.”
“Why not Selahkan?” Jallin asked. The question erupted from him. It was not the first he wanted to ask.
“The Selahkans do not usually teach outsiders their language. It is one of their ways. But they taught me so many other things. They taught me to calculate, to add and subtract, and do numbers. They taught me other languages, too. The most important things they taught me was how to teach and comfort myself. My parents were beautiful people who had loved me, and I had loved them, and their deaths nearly devastated me, and Kelést taught me comfort through knowing Trochaya.”
He stopped flipping through the book.
He found a page completely filled with strange inky swirls. He rotated the book around so Jallin could see.
Two human-shaped figures stood in opposing corners. They looked like the outlines of people. The one on the top left was white, but surrounded all around by a circle of black and black swirls of ink sprawling out from it; the one on the bottom right was black and surrounded by a circle of blank space, where the ink ended or did not go, like swirls of white page radiating from it. The two figures seemed to be at war with one another, or perhaps they were sharing each a different color. Jallin did not know what to make of it. The opposite page was filled with words, and Jallin squinted at them as though that would help him read.
“This Aavemancer, Manz Kelést, told me stories at night. He told me all kinds of stories, about all kinds of things, but some of them were about Trochaya. He told me about the patient farmer and his grain barn and Trochaya. Have you ever heard that story? Did…your mother ever tell you that story…or anyone…?”
Jallin knew he wanted to ask him about his father. He didn’t. Jallin did not want to refuse the question, so he was glad.
“Among us Trochayabites, you and me, and the others downstairs, it becomes a very popular story. A comforting story, really. And, as far as anyone really knows, it is true. Let me tell you about it. Please, sit down here.” Counselor Dursus waved his hand for Jallin to sit down. Then, his eyes looked past Jallin. “Take Eja downstairs and let her be with Mrs. Golgottia. I think she would want to meet her. It will bring her joy and comfort, dear Hurga.” Hurga took hold of Eja’s shoulders and led her out of the room.
“Hurga has heard this story quite a few times, so I don’t wish to bore her. And Eja needs to get some experience in the hospital downstairs. I think she will be quite useful to us later on.”
“Useful how? What do you mean?” Jallin said, getting up out of the chair. Counselor Dursus waved his hands harmlessly in the air.
“I mean that people who are well-educated are more useful than people who are ignorant, that is all. If she is to become a counselor, as I have plans for her to be, or at least a nurse, then I must have her be knowledgeable. You will soon join her. Now, if you will relax a bit, I will tell you this story. Will you allow me?”
Jallin sat back down.
***
Once, a farmer had a vast and very profitable farm. He made much money and produced huge crops. The only problem was he could not store them. Now, this story is a long time ago, so it was before people knew what they know now. The farmer was forced to sell as much as he could, but still quite a few of his crops he harvested went to waste. He needed a barn to store his crops in, so he built a barn, but nothing could keep out the rats and the flies and the diseases that eventually took his crops away from him. Even though he made plenty of money and had plenty of crops, he still wanted to sell more and make more money.
And still the rats got in and still the flies and still the rotting.
The farmer did not like that he lost so much good food that he could sell. He figured it was wasteful, and wastefulness is no good. So, he prayed to the gods to come and help him come up with a way to save his food.
So, one of the gods decided to answer him. This god was Trochaya, and Trochaya told him that he’d best try to come up with a way to preserve his crops. Trochaya told him that one day, the rats and the flies and the diseases and rot would be so fatted by his profits they would overrun the land. Trochaya suggested that he take a portion of his harvest aside.
Then, he told the farmer to make containers, putting a single fruit in each container. The farmer asked what types of containers should he buy, and Trochaya told him to get one of every type of container he could possibly buy. So, the farmer bought barrels, and boxes, and pots, and pans, and baskets, and bags, and cups, and buckets, and just about anything he could find that would hold a piece of fruit. And when he’d harvested his crops for that season, he put one piece of fruit into each container.
He knew what would happen, that they would rot, or a rat would get them, or flies would erupt out of them, but Trochaya said it was of no matter, and to trust him. So, the farmer was thankful that a god bothered to help him with his problem, and trusted Trochaya, which is a proper response to any help you can get. Trochaya, after all the containers had their one piece of fruit, told the farmer to wait and see what happened next. The farmer asked how long should he wait, and Trochaya said for him to wait at least three weeks.
So, he waited the three weeks, and sure enough, it came about as he predicted. Several of his fruits were taken from the open things, like the buckets and baskets and the pots and pans. The fruits that were not left open, like those left under clothes, were chewed through and still taken. But, as would make sense, the rats could not get to the things in the barrels, or those things in the covered clay pots, but flies could, and the dry air robbed the fruit of its juiciness, and mold came in. So, Trochaya returned, and asked the farmer what happened. The farmer pointed out that the rats had gotten some of the fruits, and the mold had gotten some of the others, and the flies had gotten still others.
Trochaya told the farmer to take each container that had failed to protect against the rats out of the barn, leaving the rest. So, the farmer did so. Trochaya asked him what he noticed about the containers that were left. The farmer said that some of them had holes or openings in them that were too far off the ground for the rats to get to. Others were closed at the top, so the rats couldn’t get to the fruit inside. The farmer knew this already about these containers, but Trochaya was a patient teacher.
Now, repeat what you’ve done for another three weeks without those containers. And so the farmer did. This time, none of the rats were able to get at the fruit. They scampered and scurried through the barn where the containers were, and they sniffed around, but they could not get to the fruits. Eventually, they gave up and went elsewhere. But the flies still got to some of the fruits, and the mold still got to others. The farmer found Trochaya again at the barn, and they conversed.
This time, Trochaya told him only to take away the containers where the flies had gotten to the fruit. He was to leave the containers where the mold had gotten in. But still, he should check and see if any of the fruit had survived the long experiment. A few fruits had survived, or at least were still edible. So, Trochaya asked him what had saved them this time. The farmer explained that some of the barrels had holes too small for the rats, but not small enough for the flies, so they managed to get inside. A few of the jars and pots were well covered, so the flies could not get inside them. Since the rats could not get in, and now the flies could not get in, these containers would be more ideal. Trochaya said to take out those that did not keep the flies out, and so the farmer did.
Now, again, Trochaya told him to repeat this process with what was left. This time, when he returned, there were far fewer containers. Trochaya said to go and see if any of the fruits had survived the molds, and some of them had, just as before. Trochaya said to take these fruits and plant their seeds. The farmer was very perplexed, but Trochaya said to not plant any seeds that came from the moldy fruits or the fruits that were ruined earlier than the others.
The farmer said this did not leave him with many seeds, and almost no fruits of that harvest, but Trochaya assured him this would be a blessed action. Each time he harvested these crops, the farmer should put them all in containers like these, and separate out the ones the mold had destroyed. Do this with all crops. Separate out the ones which were hit with blight and do not plant their seeds, likewise with the ones that fell early, or rotted on the vines, and on and on. Do this with livestock, too, Trochaya told him, separating out and letting die the weakest and the poorest, and only breeding the best and the strongest.
And many of our farms today still do these practices. They weed out the weak and the dying, in favor of the strong and best. They only breed the best. They only allow the best to produce heirs. And so, Trochaya does likewise with us.
***
Jallin didn’t know much about farming. He told Counselor Dursus.
“Yes, but don’t you see? Trochaya is perfecting us, just like he perfected first his containers, and then his fruits. We must allow the sick to die away. When Manz Kelést told me that Trochaya has a plan, and that he had a plan for my parents, I was, at first, shocked. I felt Trochaya had robbed me, just as you must have felt when your mother died, but Manz Kelést explained that he had not robbed me, but had guaranteed eternal life.”
“Eternal life? What do you mean?”
“Trochaya is fixing the mess that was made. The crops are in the barn, but they’re all over, spilled out on the ground, waiting to be destroyed or eaten by the enemies of life. Clearly, whatever creator made us doesn’t seem to have any plan whatsoever to protect and preserve us, just like a farmer who just throws his harvest behind a barn door and sees what he can sell of it before it all goes bad. But Trochaya has a plan. He will eliminate the enemies of life. Don’t you see?”
“I…don’t…know.”
“Think of the history of this world. The Qwadro have attacked this world twice, raising the very dead from beneath our feet to kill us. Plagues like the Claggra and Bloodlung have swept through our midst. Wars, famines, desolations, greed, poverty, have destroyed everything living at some time or another. If we could preserve ourselves, find containers that would contain us and preserve our souls forever, like the time jars some aeches and artificiers make. Trochaya is taking away the insufficient jars and containers of souls through disease and death and leaving only the best. And then, when no more people die from disease, he will eliminate starvation, too, and eventually, with nothing more causing our bodies to die, people will live forever. When that day happens, the only people who will exist will be those who live eternally, and there will be peace and prosperity for all. After all, it is a matter of time and desperation that leads people to kill other people.”
Jallin’s head was beginning to ache. This was turning swiftly into a sermon. He met the man’s eyes, which now flickered with excitement. A great smile nested in the man’s beard.
“But…aren’t you sad? I miss my mother.” Jallin wondered how much like Eja he sounded then. But then again, Eja didn’t talk much about their mother anymore.
“I was sad at first that my parents died, but Manz Kelést explained to me. He told me they had their purpose, and it was to bring me into the world, and I did not get what they had. I did not get sick like they did, so their purpose was complete. Now, I am better, and I am well. And…you are well, too.”
The man’s finger fell on the page, and Jallin looked where he pointed.
“When Trochaya selects people to serve his purposes, he picks cloths and sponges. You, are a cloth. As I said, I am a cloth and Hurga is, too, and you are as well. You see, cloths wipe up messes.” The old man fidgeted and pawed at his chest as though searching for something in his coat. He pulled from a pocket an old handkerchief, and flapped it like a nobleman about to wipe his nose. “If a cloth does its job right, you see, you wipe up something with it, and it stays wiped up. So, you are a cloth.”
“I’m not a cloth,” Jallin said. “I don’t understand that.”
“You are a cloth. Not really. I’m speaking metaphorically.” His eyes narrowed at Jallin. “Symbolically? I mean that you are like a cloth. You lived with your mother and her sickness for months, coming and going from that house in the slums, and you not only lived through it, but you didn’t even get sick. You took the disease into your body, like your sister did, but it never came out again, did it? You never got sick, and people around you never got sick. That’s how you are like a cloth. You soak up things, but don’t let them out again. See here.”
He pointed at the picture of the dark figure surrounded by a circle of blank page and which emanated white swirls. “This is a picture of a Cloth of Trochaya, Jallin.” Jallin scratched his chin. He pointed at the other picture, the blank space surrounded by black swirls. “Why isn’t this one the cloth? It’s blank page here, right?”
“Because the cloth becomes blackened by the things it absorbs.”
“So, I’m the evil one?”
“No. Dark doesn’t always mean evil. It can sometimes, but in this case, the darkness means that you have removed the filth from the world around you, containing it within yourself, as you have done with your mother’s bloodlung.”
“Well, what’s the sponge then?” Jallin asked.
“The sponge has the sickness and carries it elsewhere. Eja is sick, but she will not die.”
“How do you know?” Jallin said, in barely more than a whisper.
“She’s not dead yet. The bloodlung kills very quickly in adults, and almost immediately in children. I’ve seen so many children die from it, and in much less time than Eja. It’s an awful sickness, and Eja has survived already half as long as your mother did. And your mother was no weak woman, Jallin. She fought and fought against it. No, I’m sure she’s a sponge. The sickness comes upon her, but it leaves her, and goes elsewhere, to find others to k…I mean…test.”
Something about all this was wrong. He couldn’t see it, really. He just felt it. He was supposed to just forget his mother? Burn her memory?
“This picture represents the cloth and the sponge. No, they are not pictures of those things, but a representation of the prophecies that sponges and cloths are both Trochaya’s tools for working in this world.”
Jallin felt his frown on his face. He didn’t like any of this.
“Why don’t we just use medicines? Couldn’t medicines have saved my mother?”
“They didn’t save mine,” said Counselor Dursus without so much as a flinch. “No, according to the writings of Caddomin of Coth, one of the many disciples of the supposed ‘Mad Doctor’ of Coth:
We must build around ourselves houses that never burn,
Locks that can never be picked by thieves,
Barrels the raigs cannot get opened,
Ships that do not break upon the rocks,
And bodies like these.
“Medicines only fix the problem for a little while, until there is something worse. You cannot stand around the barrels waiting for the rats all day. We can’t constantly clean the water out and we cannot pinch every fly between our fingers. We have to know nothing will happen to our treasures. I know that every one of my followers, each person I see into the next world, each soul I introduce to Trochaya, will one day be done with this life, and soon, and then…and then…” his eyes looked at something on the ceiling, and then, he glanced at the book “…green pastures filled with food, the Waiting Lands, the place where souls will wait until bodies are perfected to hold them forever, and then no more loss, no more pain, no more death.”
The man sat for a moment with his mouth open, as though expecting another word to pour out. Then, he cut his eyes toward Jallin, closed his mouth and gathered the book to himself like it was his child.
“Well,” he said finally. “Do you understand now how important you are? We have both types of Trochaya’s tools, a cloth and a sponge, here in our midst. You are so very valuable to me, Jallin, to us, to our cause.” He grunted as he put the book back on a stack and stood.
Jallin stood, too.
“Can I ask a question?” Jallin ventured.
“Of course, my boy.”
“Do you have slave papers on me? Am I registered as a slave?”
The old man closed his eyes.
“Jallin, it was the only way. The law will not allow vagrant and homeless children.”
“But Stasser….” He wouldn’t know Stasser.
“Stasser is in my employ as well, as you probably know. He does things he ought not, however. I heard about what happened to you. For that, apparently, Trochaya is punishing him and some of the others in his little group. But you must understand Jallin, if it were not for me, that landlord who owned your mother’s hovel, might have taken you children, and Trochaya only knows where you’d be then. So, I had your mother sign you over to me, but not as slaves, no. You are, like my children.”
“But Stasser?”
“Stasser is my employee. He got the clothes you had, along with a few other things in the house, so that your family was not arrested by the putrights. Haven’t you noticed you’ve never been caught by the putrights, Jallin?”
“They couldn’t catch me,” Jallin said.
“No, they didn’t catch you. Just like they didn’t catch Stasser or any of his gang.”
“You paid them? You bribed some of the putrights?”
“A few of them, only. Just a few of the guards down here. What we are doing here is important Jallin, and like I said, you are important. You are a jar the rats can’t get, a cloth.”
Counselor Dursus led Jallin down stairs again into the parlor, where a few of the not-so-sick, and the old man Mr. Golgottia sat together. Some of the others, the nearly-bald-kinto-shah, the pale woman, and a few others, gathered around Mr. Golgottia, their hands on him, their faces close together over him. Mr. Golgottia wept.
Counselor Dursus’ hand rested on Jallin’s shoulder. Counselor Dursus leaned down near Jallin’s ear. “His wife has likely passed, or is passing. I must speak with him now. You should go down into the hospital and see what your sister and Hurga are doing. Go ahead now.”
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