Chapter 63. Give him the Good Stuff.

  Back at the castle, before the shadows rotated and reached eastward. Before a river giant lost three-quarters of its vision and before an angry fat man laid a great snake to rest—earlier that day is what I’m trying to say. Back around the time when Sid came stomping through the castle doors dragging Scarlett.

  Such a commotion woke a certain voyager. A voyager who just knew it hadn’t been a full night of sleep. Not that it would have mattered anyways, every waking was the same. However, it had started to rain. He didn’t like the rain. Not right now anyways. Not in this static absent gray. Not while big Sid was screaming out there. He knew Sid’s voice anywhere now. The man had a mean tone. It was real rough and crunchy. Raw. Emotionally fueled with the passion of all flames, …and Abram did not like it in the rain.

  Listening from the bed of the speed-wagon. Peering only into the gray of blindness. The flashing within the swirling of those odd eyes detected nothing. It wasn’t always like this though. He wasn’t always this blind. There was a time when Abram could connect with his senses. He had a special connection. That flash in his eyes, it was more then just a neat little spark of light. It was a collective of surrounding. Smell. Vibration. Sound. Hell even a bit of taste found it’s way. That flash could process an instant and single image for the man. Like someone had painted what was in front of him through the palate of imagination. If he practiced. With patience and concentration. He could find that focus again. It wasn’t a great sense of sight—but what do we say around here ‘everything is skill. The more you do it. The better you become.’ Anyways—it required much mental practicing, ….and blinking. Every blink would reset the image. Quicker the blinking meant a more rapid processing, meaning he could see in real time—but why go through all that practice when he could simply crack a shard, grind it down, snort the dust, and trade just that much more of his aura for that little desire of vision.

  Not only that but the nasal dripping that came with was nice too. It was a numbing buzz that mead just could not compete with. Honestly that feeling alone was enough drive for many men and that path was a dark one—no, no his blindness had nothing to do with his addiction—well yeah I suppose right now it does, but addiction was not the causing.

  Addiction only takes from aura. Makes you weak—not like that, well sort of but also a mental weakness. Aura depletion takes toll on the body—honestly I’m sure you could point those folks out they’re easy to spot. Scraggly. Hungry. Thirsty. All of them had that slight expression of lost emptiness, filthily smeared with shades of beaten misery—you’ve seen the type I’m sure.

  Abram curled tight. A shiver ripped through his entirety and he squirmed in his fetal ball. Clammy hands trembled through pockets. Outside pockets and hidden inside pockets. Feeling here and there for it. Body aching with every turned out pocket. Where the hell was that little leather pou—oh there it is. He didn’t remember putting it there, …oh well doesn’t matter. In a different pocket was that mini pestle and mortar.

  Placing his last and only lonely final shard in that little bowl he felt the rim with a finger, guiding the head of the tool within.

  -Clack-Clack-Clack-Crack-

  In that crack of time a glimmer escaped the shard. A faint seeping trail of something whispered from the shard while such golden color escaped—I don’t know maybe it was Abrams desperation. Perhaps it was the energy within the shard. There once was talk about it though. Just small tongue in cheek words of such glimmer. Only faint rumors and alleyway whispers. Saying that, that bit of glow tears at ones aura right there in real time. Snagging a piece of the soul in exchange. The trade off? Abram gets his sights until, ….well until he goes to sleep as far as he understands—lets just stick with that, that’s comforting right?

  Where does the glimmer go? It goes up. It goes out. It goes beyond. I honestly don’t know where it goes precisely, but I do know which of the Siblings is exchanging such desire in return. It’s not just sights that those single shards can give either—the Seven are tricky with manipulation like that.

  Arieo for example. The handsome donkey dream’s of being quick. Hasty. Speedy. That bit of shard dust could allow it. The trade off? Eventually he becomes sluggish. Tired. Lazy. Not the typical ‘I just want to sit here and do nothing’ that’s the kind of laziness that folks plan for. This was brutal exhaustion. The kind that makes the body hurt. It was a cold snap of torment. Stinging the body allover like a thousand hornets. Staying still, and sleeping was the only escape.

  There is a pattern to the shards though. One doesn’t have to delve into addiction for the benefits. One just needed to stack the colors. Press the pattern and form the tablet—that’s pretty advanced stuff though, easier said than done, we’ll get to that later.

  “Tell Briareos the Bear-King has returned.”

  That calling sent a pulse through Abrams spine. He knew it. He just knew it. He knew Sid was who he was looking for. He wasn’t sure who he was yelling at either. He could only wonder. But for now he knew it.

  “Me fuckin knew it the whole time!” Abram, the manic mariner. He just casually shouted from the safe corner of his wagon. It was a slightly late response. Nobody paid mind to him either. Specially not Sid. Sid wasn’t listening to anything or anyone—no that’s not true.

  There was many voices Sid was listening too. Just none that anyone else could. It was a special set of whisperings. Small voices for Sid’s thoughts only. Sinister comments guiding his actions. Suggestions Sid should just try and ignore. However, even with his beautiful set of stars in Ignorance, those vicious voices were quietly coaching his contributions.

  Abram ripped his knuckles every time he twist the pestle. He had to be fast. Folks could be watching. Others could want his last shard. Sid could be gone completely. The big guy had no skills—as far as Abram knew—and he was so damn stupid to the game. He had potential though, and that’s what worried Abram. Under the wrong temptations Sid could be influenced for one of the Seven.

  The commotion had now gone still. The only sound was the crunch of the shard he worked. He paused to listen, sucking the fuzz along his teeth. The shiver never subsided. His body jolted, and he nearly spilled the contents of the mortar he was hunched over.

  There it was. The buzz of suspicion. Folks were all curious of what had happened. They all needed to just mind their business and carry on. This many suspicious people in one collecting—oh it was just going to be a horrid and tragic thing when time caught up. He continued to grind. Listening to the questioning only beyond.

  “Scarlett, what’s going on?” Asked a man.

  “Are you alright, Scarlett?” Another man pitched.

  “Who was that, Scarlett?” Asked a woman.

  “Here, let me help you up.” A child.

  “Scarlett, you’re bleeding.” A woman.

  His jaw rippled with each grinding. Body twitching with each question of the crowd. An unwanted shiver forced him to jolt, not nearly as bad as earlier. The need was torment. He’d rather a hundred lashings while tied to the mast.

  The thought of the shard dust made his mouth salivate. This little mortar and dinky pestle, that fine powder would take forever. He continued to twist. Grind. Tap and twist some more. Twitching with the thoughts of this fine powder he attempt to grind down. Then the realization settled. It was raining—fuck, …he couldn’t grind it to powder. Not now. Not in the rain. It would melt.

  Odd eyes flashed wildly. Staring into the static grey of nothing.

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  The pestle rolled softly before stopping completely. By the sound of it, it was only just more course than the soil under the grass. It was going to have to do. He had no other choice. He felt the inside of the mortar.

  It was already beginning to melt and clump. Shit, ….it should be fine. It should still work. Hopefully.

  That cold shaky hand reached within the flap of his coat. “Arieo, wake up buddy.” It was a raspy cry. A call barely thrown over a shoulder. Then pulling out an item he wouldn’t be caught dead without. The legendary Sniffy-Stick.

  Finding his way he let the stick dance with an ugly tune. The reeds worn fibrous edges grinding gently around and against the inner shell of the bowl. It was a thick and hard pull. Dragging the goop and chunky particles through with each sniffing pass. It was like snorting mud.

  Coughing and hacking erupted from the wagon. Sharpness of improperly crushed edges scratched and ripped at his nasal cavities. The thickness of the goop nearly clogged his airway. His eyes burned and the tears swelled. He had to be strong though. A nosebleed is nothing. He need to hurry. He had to catch up with Sid.

  Abram tilted his head back. Capping a nostril with a finger, ensuring every bit rolled back. He needed to absorb it all. It was a rough couple of pulls but he would live. He sniffled a few times. That shard mud was already hardening. It was more comparable to gravel now.

  Right eye twitched from corner to corner. His nostril had slicked over and the nerve in his lip had a pulse of its own. The drips had a slight iron bite to them and they were scratchy. It’s fine. A nosebleed is nothing. That warmth was nice though. It was still there. He swallowed a few more times—that shard must have been green. The green ones always had that taste. Salty and sour. A little moldy. Like the tavern girls.

  He took a deep breath while the color started to bleed into his imagination. His eyes flashed with the beat of his heart. In a breath the shape of the castle towers above came into focus.

  “Arieo c’mon wake up, me knows ye can hear me.”

  Arieo wanted to open his eyes, but what’s the point. It was raining. They should just stay here. He could even wheel them around the castle. They could rest in the dry stables. The other animals wouldn’t mind if his master slept there. He smelled animal enough. Arieo was already waking though. He woke on the first calling. But here you go, his eyes are open, are you happy now.

  Bold brown eyes looked at his master still sitting in the corner of the wagon. Performing that ritual he did. It would be his turn soon. He just needed to wait for his master to get up. Oh no what happened. His masters nose is bleeding. Is he okay? Meh, he’s fine. He doesn’t seem to mind. Or notice.

  “There she be.” Abram said with relief looking at the dim glow behind the rain cloud. He closed his eyes, feeling the droplets over his face. A single cold finger dragged a crimson streak from under his narrow nose. Beads of rain smeared through pulling that red tinge over his lips. Through the stubble of his chin.

  “Hates the rain me does, Arieo.” His mind strayed down a forgotten trail.

  Rain was different now. Now that he could see what he was feeling. There was a time when Abram was not so coordinated. That blind droplet of rain triggered a memory of such a time. A time of isolation. Alienation. A marooning time when he was a one-of-none on an island—a time we don’t really have the time for right now, I’ll come back around to it, in time.

  Abram blinked a few times, allowing clarity to find its place. Plugging a nostril he snorted hard. Collecting whatever was left and swallowed. “A’right Arieo c’mon buddy yer up.”

  His master reamed his finger around that little teacup looking bowl. His finger looked awful. It looked filthy. Absolutely sloppy. If anything it looked scratchy as all hell. For Sevens’ sake have some decency man. Arieo did not want that. That would make his gums bleed. He would be chewing it at this point. He hated that. Might as well have been eating dirt. Speaking of eating, he was so super hungry. Where the hell were his parsnips? His master said they would be getting a basket full. There was no basket in the wagon. No. No, get away with that finger. No, he doesn’t want that rough shard. Stop! Stop it! No means no damn it!

  “Arieo knock it off c’mon ain’t ye wantins to be speedy?”

  “HAAAAW”

  “Arieo damn it we ain’t got time for that. ‘ere it works just the same.”

  Arieo wasn’t having it. Bobbing and dodging. He curled his lips inward. Good luck with that Abram—now if you’ve never seen a donkey biting his own lips in refusal to open his mouth, …Just know it’s rather humorous. Same goes with the struggle between the two.

  “C’mon Arieo open yer mouth!” Abram managed the donkey in a headlock trying to wiggle his fingers into its mouth. “Just the tip Arieo lemme work the tip around yer gums.”

  Arieo only stepped on Abrams foot in response.

  “Ouch.” It was a wonderful one-legged hop.

  Areio bobbed with puffed cheeks. Still clutching those lips. Watching his master dance. Yeah dance you dummy. Give him the smooth stuff.

  “Damn it Arieo we needs to be leavin.” His master then got very serious and held a finger up. A very dirty shard coated finger. “Arieo we can be doins this the easy way ors the hard way. Me be willing to coat yer gums.” His voice got very low and very taunting. “Or me can gives it to yas the others way.” Abram lifted a brow looking between such finger and Arieo. Those swirly blue-greys flashed between blinks.

  Arieo only stared right back. Eyes half lidded. Testing the threat. Blinking unevenly like he does. If his master even tried what he thinks he was talking about, he would be kicking him—right there on his plank—lets see him raise the mast after that—no stop that, he still didn’t want that crunchy shard muck. He didn’t want to suck that gunk off his masters finger. He wanted the nice smooth powder. He liked the way it rest in his cheek. The way it mixed with his saliva. Arieo did not want this gravel ripping up his mouth. Give him the good stuff! Stop it! Knock it—

  “HAAAAW” He bobbed away from Abrams reaching.

  “Damn it Arieo we aint got the time for that right now. It be raining.” Abram stomped a foot. “I be the captain!”

  A full tantrum erupted after the foot stomp declared a verbal war. Abram spit and curse. Shook his fists with anger. Raised his hands with empty threats. Even spoke of an imaginary whip in the wagon. Paced a few more times shouting repeated offenses. Kicked loose stones and even slapped the wooden railing—earning him a few more splinters.

  “Arieo ye bein a fuckin stubborn mule ye knows that?” Abram barked, pulling a thick splinter from his palm. Sucking his blood—yeah Abram was one of those weirdos that would suck on his wound if it was a small leaker—no he’s not a vampire some folks just do that sort of thing… they’re fine, it’s the ones who eat their own peeling skin, be weary of those ones.

  “Haw.” Arieo corrected. Inflating his mane. Braying as if he was a sophisticated scholar. You should have heard it.

  “What be the difference, Arieo? Do ye even knows what separates mules and donkeys?”

  Arieo was now the one honking. However, his tantrum was a bit more educational. Explaining how both his parents were in fact donkeys.

  He did though have a distant cousin who was a mule. And cousin mules father, oh that creature was a real jack-ass. The animal just thought he was hot shit because Arieos aunt—somehow, way, shape, however the hell—she was a tall elegant show horse. A bright white one with dark glassy eyes—it didn’t last long though. That jack-ass uncle of his was an abusive alcoholic. His aunt—the show horse—she was seen all over the pastures with all the other donkeys and horses too. Pulling all the wagons. Leading all the carts. All just acting like a bunch of animals really.

  Abrams eyes flashed vividly while he stared with a blank expression. “Was that ‘upposed to be a joke Arieo? Ye be a real smart-ass aintcha.” He finally said coldly.

  Arieo bobbed his head and swooshed his tail. He was so proud of himself. It’s not very often he gets to learn his master something. Maybe he’ll stop calling him a mule. It was kind of insulting really. Only the weirdos breed outside of the family like his uncles and cousins. Arieo would never be able understand it. Arieo would only settle with a jenny. No horse. No mule. Pig. Goat. Duck. Sheep or any other barnyard animal. Just a sweet little golden jenny with a buttery yellow mane and a long flowing tail of the same—fun fact, jenny is a term for female donkey. To all the Jenny’s and Jennifer’s, I’m sorry if that little fun fact ruined the perspective of your name. Future mothers if that helps change name ideas for future daughters, well that just shines my stars. How about May, Clementine, or Amanda.

  Arieo was still honking with amusement. Lifting his head and swooshing that tail.

  During that head bob of educational victory Abram leapt for Arieo. Ramming his fingers deep into the donkeys mouth. Arieo made an awful noise—I’ve never heard a donkey gag before and I will never unhear it now. Why Abram had his hand so far back there was anyone’s guess.

  He reamed those purple gums. Thick grainy bits catching in the grooves of those blocky teeth. Scratching him.

  -Chomp-

  “Ouch!” Abram yanked his finger from Arieos mouth. “Damn it Arieo the hell was that for?”

  Arieo only blinked at him—unevenly yeah, funny how he does that huh—he chewed slowly. Crunching the bits of shard grain. Might as well have been eating dirt. Just like he imagined.

  “Ohh boo-hoo Arieo.” He said popping a finger from his mouth, examining it. “Me hads to snort the stuff. Me nose is bleedin cause of its. Now c’mon we needs to get movin.”

  Hooves produced that amazing clop-clop-clop and the wagon wheel squeaked. As did Abram, just barely as he turned and led the way. “Thank you Arieo.”

  His master honestly had nothing to do with it. Arieo could have stayed there and argued all night. It was that shard. That shard shit just, …it just hits right. Works fast too. Arieo really wasn’t even that hungry anymore. Not right now anyways. Just a little jittery. Slightly anxious. He wanted to run. Be speedy. That’s what he did. He was Arieo, Captain of the Speed-Wagon. And he would like to keep that title. Instead he had to keep pace with his master. He would probably be now known as Arieo, Leader of the Clopity-Clops.