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Tale of the Tunes--Bumps in the Night

PG-13  Do'nar's long-winded tale continues.  Do you believe that Firehawk has listened quietly this long?

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Well, I'm something ashamed to admit what happened next, but you can't laugh at me any more than you're already doing, you dratted fire-starter!

Now, you say you're from a land that lacks magic---although much of what you talk about, like that "teevee" thing, sounds like sorcery to me!  But never mind that.  Point is, you say most folks don't believe in magic where you hail from.  Or maybe, they just call it something else to make themselves more comfortable.

Well, Khesh has more than its share of enchantment and everyone admits it.  I'd even felt magic breathing down my neck so to speak, while lost in the Elflands.  So I had no excuse to try and pretend this rock was normal in face of the evidence.  But by the gods, I tried, Hawk!

After glaring befuddled for some seconds, I grabbed a cloth used for buffing armor and tossed it over the rock, just as if not seeing it would make a difference.  Maybe if the starstone had needed a little apron for its next cooking job it would have stitched one up and scared me into good sense.  But it just sat there under the fabric, oozing normality as you would say, and I was mighty relieved.

"I must have been drunker than I thought!" I muttered.  And with that handy phrase to explain everything, I began to talk myself into a comfortable delusion.  I knew that magic lived in our land.  But it had never happened directly to me before, you see.  And so I convinced myself that it wasn't occurring this time, either.  It was partly because I preferred not to deal directly with all that jiggery pokery.  But mainly, I just didn't want anything interfering with my plans to craft something from that bit of elf metal!  The idea had become an obsession, as you would put it.

All the mental stress of lying to myself made me powerful hungry.  So I lugged my kill into our main tent and started carving it up for dinner, splitting the meat equally between me and Rainclaw, and singing as I did it to ward off suspicion.  This, too, was a kind of deceit, pretending those illicitly roasted birds were ordinary!

The old man was just waking up---maybe my tuneful voice did the trick--and he was a tad surprised since he usually did the cooking.  He sniffed the air suspiciously to check if anything was on fire, then grabbed a platter and nibbled cautiously.

"By the gods, boy, this is good!" he cackled, beginning to stuff himself with more enthusiasm.  Then he spoiled it by adding, "What happened? Is that Foxmoon gel hiding in back and roasted these up for me?  Foxmoon!  Come in and sit for a spell! Your Bonded won't mind, I'm too old to get you in trouble!"

"Foxmoon didn't cook these," I growled.  "Can't you just say 'thanks' and eat without all the chatter?"

"No.  Not when dinner is soaked in spices that you couldn't even pronounce, much less find or blend properly.  Lad, you burn water on a good day and you know it.  Who made this, be honest!"

What was I supposed to say, "My friend the magic rock sure can cook!"?

"I admit I don't remember," I growled, rubbing the back of my head in agitation.  "I got drunk and passed out, and everything I did before that is a bit hazy since I hit my head on landing.  But no other human being came near me to my knowledge and those hens were there in my pack as you see them, only with less tooth marks.  Ready to eat, I mean.  Who else would have cooked up my game instead of stealing it?"  There.  That was all mostly true, even though sidestepping the fact that I'd secured a bit of starstone.

Rainclaw grunted, and jammed some more bird in his beak.  He chewed noisily for a while without taking his beady eyes off me, and I sweated a bit. I'm not used to being sly and I don't doubt I'm clumsy at it, then or now!  The old man wasn't senile in the least despite his attempts to convince me he might drop dead any second.  There was something going on and he knew it.

Fortunately he wasn't in the mood to pester me about it.  Instead, he cackled abruptly.  "Well, I'll just remember to drown you in booze and crack your skull before letting you near my cookpots.  There's odder things, I reckon.  That gel Foxmoon seems to think someone has to clean the crockery after every eating, for one.  At least you aren't that loony!"

"Definitely not!" I agreed in horror, and there the matter rested between us, for the moment.

Between myself and the starstone  well, though I didn't realize it the battle for dominance was on!

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Do'nar took a swig from the skin of Firefog wine Hawk had produced from somewhere as the tale rattled on, and sighed.  "Whatever 'hair of the dog' means, wizard, this was kind of you.  My head actually feels human again!"  He peered at the wizard as he passed the beverage back.  "And for a man prone to gabble on about nothing for hours, you're a damn fine listener, I must say!"

Firehawk grinned faintly.  "Thanks, I think.  And you aren't as lousy a storyteller as I woulda guessed, either.  But what happened next?  No, my project can wait till you're done.  We got the whole day here, except for Mr. Potato-Head's shield."  For some reason this remark caused the wizard to erupt in gales of laughter.  Do'nar's mood had improved so much he chuckled as well though he didn't find it *that* funny.  The Hawk's interest in his story, for one thing, had mellowed Do'nar considerably.

They had parked themselves comfortably to drink and yarn, backs against the chest of starstone. The murmurs from the container, which had stilled as the warrior told his tale, now began again in a softer key.  Like the trilling murmur of restless pigeons, a bit.  They too seemed to be requesting Do'nar continue.

"Well, I'll make it short and sweet," Do'nar promised, belching comfortably.  "If possible!"

Firehawk snorted his disbelief at that one, but his eyes were shining.  "Take your time," he invited.  "This is good stuff; I'm about tempted to write a song here!" Do'nar shuddered and made a warding sign at the thought, and Firehawk laughed in delight.

The binful of starstone hummed impatiently, and Do'nar collected his thoughts.  "Obviously, I learned to craft the metal, but not in any normal way.  And not because I was especially smart, either!"

The starstone giggled in agreement at that remark.  So did Firehawk, damn his hide.

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I started out by trying to chip a small piece off of that rock, to study it separately.  After I broke all my chisels and three of Rainclaw's, it occurred to me that melting it might work better.  I tried that later---first in a small fire, then gradually building up to the hottest blaze the forge could produce.  Hawk, the goddamn thing not only didn't melt---it didn't even get heated!  I yanked it out with tongs, you see, and the stuff got loose and smacked against my arm.  My skin should have frizzled, but if anything the dang rock felt colder than ever!  Eh, what do you mean, "One ring to rule them all"?  I couldn't even work a bit loose, let alone craft any jewelry!

Anyway, I had been at this for weeks and I was getting a little loony.  The rock didn't seem to look at me with amusement anymore---not since the first few times I'd chiseled at it anyway.  There was a tension growing between me and that hunk of stone, though I tried to ignore it as my own imagination.  Other things started happening, too, though I foolishly didn't connect it all up at the time.

The first event was just after I'd spent a tiring, disappointing morning breaking chisels on the stone.  Nothing wears you out like frustration, and I fell into bed early intending to sleep the clock round before trying again.  I sure didn't expect to be awakened by a furious, naked old geezer whacking me through the covers with his bedamned staff.

"What the HELL!" I roared, and I surged up through his blows and wrestled the weapon away from him, losing my bed-furs in the process.  I twisted my ankle and nearly tripped on the puddle of blankets as we struggled for control of the staff, and that didn't sweeten my mood one bit either.  "Have you gone Southern and lost your mind?  Why the hell are you pounding on a sleeping man?  I'm innocent!"  I don't know why I added that last, except that my stepfather had an attitude on that could've made an angel feel guilty.  And he had his quirks, but I will say this was the first time he'd ever attacked when I was sleeping.  He much preferred looking me in the eye as he pummeled me.

"Innocent, are you?  Then who else in the tent picked me up out of bed and threw me to the floor?"  He peered around dramatically, air whistling in and out of his beaky nose in one of those breathing fits he gets when really agitated.  "Nope; I don't see anyone but the big brainless galoot in front of me!   I've told you time and again I don't like those pranks of yours!"

I caught his scrawny arm as he wound up to start hitting me again barefisted; he was so upset he might have kept at it until he broke his knuckles.  "Now stop and think a second, you old lunatic!  I'm a hell of a warrior but I'm not as damned nimble as you're trying to make out.  How by Thor do you think I'd be able to slip back into my own bed so fast after kicking you out of yours?  We bunk yards apart because you insist I snore---a lie, by the way!  And when's the last time I pulled a prank on you anyway?  When I was ten?  It's pointless to tease an old bastard with no sense of humor who holds a year's grudge for being glued to his chair a mere hour or two.  And tossing you on the floor," I finished grandly, "isn't even a creative joke."

"Creative!" he snorted, but his brow wrinkled in thought and he relaxed his ropey muscles enough to where I figured it was safe to let him go.  And as I did, I studied him and began to worry.  He wasn't having some old man's delusion as I'd thought---his skin was freshly mottled with bruises from somewhere.  "Well, then, who the hell did it if it wasn't you?"

"Er---oh, Thor! You were probably just sleeping restless and jumped out yourself!"

He eyed me, then said quietly, "Actually---I reckon it was ghosts."

Now I didn't like that thought one bit.

Any man who kills a bushel of foes is a target for vengeful ghosts, of course.  However, most enemy spirits are logical enough to realize that fair's fair, they were trying to kill you too after all.  They shrug and move on peacefully, in general.  But I was unfortunate enough to have a Tribal ghost who might reasonably have a grudge against me.

I'm not talking about Speargrim, he was still alive even though he'd had to learn to fight with his left hand after I'd hacked the other one off in a battle rage.  He'd been the first to admit that he shouldn't have gotten so close to a berserker, best friend or not, but we were both teenage boys then and he'd been excited since he'd never been in a true battle before.  But I guess it was more confusing than he'd expected, because after a few minutes he'd run to me for company, and I proceeded to do my best to mow him down.

He actually thought it was funny once he got over the pain and shock; still tells the story at feasts about me chasing him around and around roaring like a troll while he spurted blood and yelled for his mother.   And I grin and act like I think it's amusing also.  Truth is, I puked my guts out afterwards when Rainclaw told me what I'd done---I had no memory of anything, the berserker rage is like that.  And the old man held the basin for me silently, and then afterward when I started bawling he hugged me with unnatural gentleness before he ordered me to bed.  "Another thing, lad.  Speargrim doesn't blame you, but his father threw a fit when he heard."

"I'll go talk to him tomorrow," I interrupted wearily.  It wouldn't be fun; that fellow and Rainclaw were bitter enemies and he hadn't been pleased at his oldest son striking up a friendship with me.  Now he had a further cause for resentment and worse, a chance to say I told you so. Perfect!

"You'll be traveling to Vahalla to say you're sorry, then," Rainclaw said bluntly.  "Don't gape at me, boy! I got tired of hearing him yammer about what a villain you were.  And he sounded like he'd be a danger to you later, so I challenged him.  Won, too."  The old buzzard grinned proudly.  "I've still got a kick or two left in me, by Odin!"

Kick or not, I knew Rainclaw wasn't above fighting dirty if he had to. And that damned warrior he spoke so calmly of defeating had been twice his size. "Let me get this straight; I cut off my best friend's hand, mistakenly or not.  And then YOU improve matters by slaughtering his father?!  Thor and Odin bugger themselves, what were you thinking?!"

Rainclaw shrugged mildly.  "Seemed a good idea at the time.  He provoked me, with all that crying about his poor wounded boy.  Pffft!  Such scratches are normal in combat.  In fact, the lad benefited from it, that gel of Foxmoon's was so sorry for him she finally agreed to be hand-fasted.  So everything worked out for the best; especially that I'm finally rid of that annoying bastard for good!"

He patted my back encouragingly as I stood there, appalled but unable to muster up anything piercing enough to sting his thick hide.  "If I hadn't been so pissed off at his whining, boy, I doubt I could've beat him.  So I owe you a favor, dammit!  I just hope his ghost doesn't bother us; he's the exact kind of wretched pest who'd blame me for killing him and come back to snivel about it!"

Now, we looked at each other and thought about the past for a second or two.  Then Rainclaw snorted.

"Bah! I'm an old man and it's true I nap restless.  I probably did roll out, dream or not I still move in my sleep I reckon.  Ja'kar wouldn't have any more balls as a deader than he did in life; he might stab me in the back if ghosts can pick up a knife at all, but just shove me and risk I'd come after him? By Thor, I doubt it!"

I tended to agree with him about Ja'kar's courage, and we made a few more jokes about it and then forgot the incident---until the next night that is.  Because after a day spent tapping, whacking and pounding the unresponsive rock with hammers both large and small, shortly after falling asleep I was picked up out of bed and thrown across the room by a force like a strong, silent and very irritated storm wind.

The place being a tent and me *not* being what you'd call small even then, of course I didn't bounce off the wall or get squashed on it.  I just kept going and took half the structure down with me as the stakes and bindings were torn free by my weight.  Rainclaw and I were buried of course, and we flapped around under the skins like born idiots until we found the edge and worked our way out.

We didn't have much time to speculate about the event once we wriggled free.  Our home is located smack in the middle of the steading, the most traveled part as you know.  It only made sense to have the forge and its workers accessible, but at that moment, glaring at the yahoos who had crowded around to stare and snicker, I didn't see the justice in it one bit.

"By the gods, what happened?  Your tent went down like Thor himself sat on it!  Did Do'nar get too excited beating off and tumble into the wall?"

"Haw haw haw, maybe he tricked a war-maid in there with him, and she knocked him across the room for trying to steal a kiss!"

"Nah, more likely he farted from his own cooking and blew the place in two!"  A mighty round of howling at this one; even Rainclaw grinned briefly as he wobbled to his feet.

But he turned dour again quickly, shaking his bony fist at the mob since his staff was lost somewhere back in the destruction.  "If all you funny bastards want any metalwork done in the next five seasons, you'll cork yourselves and help us repair this mess!  And to shut up your speculations, I'll admit I had a nightmare and caused the ruckus in my sleep.  I'm almost a hundred years old, I'm entitled to a few off moments!" he yelled, squashing the laughter that had started again at this lying confession.  "Unlike some stripling fool who loses control of his horse and flattens homes that way!"

Foxmoon's husband, who'd made the comment about a fickle maid, had the grace to look sheepish.  He was in his fifties and far from a stripling, but to Rainclaw anyone younger than a tree was considered teenaged.  And his memory was scary; it'd been thirty years at least since LionEyes had roared through the camp, full of Blue Death and howling with laughter as his runaway beast knocked over buildings and pedestrians.  Happened before I was born, unfortunately; I would of liked to seen that rather than just hear the stories!  He was now a relatively sober family man, Foxmoon having tamed him nicely.  The bastard had even lectured *me* a time or two about seemly behavior, which made his embarrassment all the sweeter. The way he blushed and rubbed his toe in the dirt you would've thought he'd had his drunken ride just yesterday.  Rainclaw was good, no doubt about it!

Well, they'd had their laugh and so our neighbors pitched in gladly to help us.  And one thing I'll say about the Riders, they seem to roar around noisily in a whirl of chaos, but truth is they are a damn efficient folk.  Foxmoon had run to her tent instantly and returned with a couple of cloaks for us, muffling her laughter behind her hand as the pair of us turned red and wrapped up quickly.  Riders aren't modest about being naked usually, but no man likes to stand around dangling in front of a grinning pack of interested neighbors, not when a nippy winter breeze is shriveling everything you've got!

That tent was up and the contents straightened in less than an hour's time, and without the pair of us doing a thing except give instructions as to where the furniture should go.  We didn't ask that the place be swept and cleaned after it was set up again, in fact Rainclaw started cussing at the very idea, but with Foxmoon there naturally a group was organized to tackle the project.  That crew of polishers was scary, Hawk! They not only ignored the old man's protests, they damn near swept him out the door until he gave up and got out of their way.

Since there were too many volunteers for everyone to help without tripping over each other, some of the crew decided to just contribute food and drink to lessen our suffering. Naturally, once refreshments arrived the cleanup turned into a small party.  It took awhile for us to steer everyone out the door and get them wobbling homeward even after the grub was gone, and I wasn't pleased to see that somehow early evening had snuck up on us again.  I wouldn't be able to get much accomplished with my pet project that day, not given the amount of commissions I'd been putting off to play with the damn rock!  But our Tribe had been so helpful I felt guilty now about ignoring my duty.  I decided that I'd only make a couple of stabs at working the stone, then get to my real tasks at last.  I wasn't delighted at being responsible, but it seemed only fair.

Rainclaw yawned hugely, and belched like a thunderclap to express his approval of Foxmoon's pastries.  "Well, that went better than I was expecting!  Finer cooking than we're used to, and four extra kegs of alcohol in our pantry!  Funny how people mislay a barrel when someone has the foresight to drop a fur over it!"

I eyed him, and since we were finally alone I spoke bluntly.  "You old liar.  You must of known I got tossed from bed just as you did earlier.  Why the story about nightmares?  You sleep like a stunned goat and we both know it.  You don't have enough imagination to attract bad dreams!"

"Maybe not," he acknowledged grumpily.  "But common sense I've got, and rumors about Ja'kar's ghost plaguing us would be a bad thing to share!  Our people are a bunch of running mouths when they get wind of new gossip.  Better they think I'm touched in the head than that you're haunted by the father of your friend!"

I was impressed with his thoughtfulness, and said so.  He made a rude sound with his nose that was very like a fart except for its point of origin.

"Damn, boy, I don't care about Speargrim's feelings, then or now!  Anyone stupid enough to pester a baresark in the middle of battle deserves nothing better than missing body parts and dead relatives!  But you're my family and I won't have you made mock of.  Problem is, I'm not sure what to do about this dead bastard. I shoulda known he'd be too pig-mean to lay down decently and keep quiet!"

The second assault had convinced him it was a problem of spirits, and having experienced being picked up and tossed like a rag ball by an invisible force, I could understand his reasoning.  Something didn't feel right about the solution, though, and I felt obliged to say so.  "Still, I would've thought an angry ghost would be more---I don't know, malicious?  Bloody-minded?  Like ripping our limbs off or some such thing. Being chucked from bed wasn't pleasant, but it seemed more like a burst of child's temper than an honest effort to hurt either of us!"

Rainclaw shrugged at my feeble objections; he wasn't much of one to analyze a problem, he liked to tackle a crisis head-on, preferably by whacking it over the noggin  with his staff.  But there was no skull to aim at here and you could tell it irked him.  "Well, he always was an idiot.  And who knows the mind of a spook, or even if he's got one left?  If Ja'kar was still alive I'll kill him again with pleasure, but once they've already croaked what by Thor can a plain man do with 'em?"

He threw the pine-scented furs back, peeking under them warily as if expecting Ja'kar to already be there poised to hurl him out again.  "I suppose I can go and see that new witchwoman who appeared from out of nowhere a few weeks ago."  He clicked his tongue, looking unhappy.  "I mislike asking advice from a gel, but laying ghosts *is* a shaman's job, and she's been here long enough to have some idea what she's doing hopefully!  Well, I'll bother her first thing tomorrow; no profit in visiting a spooky woman like that this near dark."

Muttering to himself, he climbed into the freshly aired bed; our helpful neighbors had managed to add laundry to the tasks they performed to cheer us up.  The huge lunch and oceans of drink had made me drowsy, too, but I had work to do and guilt to drive me to it.  And I admit a new idea had popped into my brain as well.

"Er, Rainclaw! You mind if I use some of that smelly acid you traded for?  The stuff you got to etch armor?"

Almost dozing, he still managed to peer at me suspiciously.  "What?  You haven't even returned my enlarging lens yet; it's probably lying broken in a field somewhere.  And whose armor you planning to decorate? You know it's a delicate process, and we don't use big pieces of metal here like they do down South.  Etching chain mail is a fool's work!  I bought the stuff to kill rats to be honest---"

"Swansteel's helm," I yammered, grabbing an idea out of thin air.  "She, uh, asked for one in the Southern style, only lighter.  I thought I'd try to pretty it up while I was at it---"  Well, I *had* considered making her one, as a name-day present.   It wasn't entirely a lie, by Odin!  "And since this is the fiftieth time you've mentioned your lens this week, I'll return it tomorrow just to shut you up.  But I need it still for the, erm, etching."

It was the right thing to say; Rainclaw grinned lewdly and relaxed.  "Oh, is that the way of it?  About time you give a present to a lass you're flirting with, though it'll never go any further if you keep your ass in the forge night and day.  I don't see how you work so much and get so little accomplished; I've had a couple of customers asking where the hell their commissions are at!"

"Actually, dammit, she's flirting with *me*!"  It had already gotten to a more interesting stage between us than flirtation; older women tend to be decisive about their wants, thank Odin!  But no need to entertain this old bastard with too much information!  "And I'll get the commissions done; you know that.  I do best when I make a night of it and get everything finished in a grand sweep."

"After piddling around for days on nothing important and getting behind; yes, that's how young folks like to do it!"  I vibrated nervously at that, and he chuckled.  "Well, I've got no complaints as long as you don't lose us money or reputation.   You're a good lad, Do'nar---generally speaking."  After this astonishing remark he fell solidly asleep.

I gently tucked the covers around his bony shoulders, and sent a prayer to the raven of Restful Slumber, asking the bird to roost on his head for as many hours as it would take for me to get all my work done---both the commissions and the obsession.  About a week should do it!

Then I strode into the forge to confront that scowling rock with fire, determination, and a stinky acid used to engrave armor and stun rats.

It would prove to be a life-changing encounter---for the both of us.

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TBC---eventually! 8P