Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 35: Wind, Light, Shadow and Fire

Val the Bard:

Bells clanging, guards shouting, the door opening... mother of Infernum we are given no time to think.

"Out of the light," I tell cleric and witch. I place myself half in shadow, sword drawn, wearing the guard cape and helm. With Sister Fortuna's smile I'll pass for who he expects. Should I be holding the book, posing deep in theologic study?

The heavy door pushes open, a guard hurries in.

"Leave the lock up. All hands to posts, we've got rotters in the middle of town and who are you?"

I knee him to the side of the gut. As he folds I strike the back of his head with the sword butt. He collapses nicely. The cleric adds a mild thump with his broom-stick staff. The witch gives a hard kick, unnecessary and rather mean. The man is down.

"Take his helmet and cloak," I order the witch.

"Who the Lucif's thorny cock put Missus Horse Thief in charge?" she demands.

I fight the desire to run her through. I'm trembling, not with fear but that same red thirst that shook me when Marcus ripped my shirt and I ripped his guts.

"Blessed Martia just promoted me on the field," I growl. "If you want to live, follow her holy light."

She returns growl for growl, but the cleric lays one calming hand to her shoulder, the other to mine. At which I struggle not to run him through. While she bares the teeth of a dog finished with being beaten. But the cleric whispers soothing words.

"The bard is clearly wise to this work. Let us make use of her wisdom."

I shake off the hand, peer beyond the door. Within it's a disgraceful chaos Folk are shouting, bells ringing, horns blowing. Guards searching for weapons, straightening uniforms, stumbling towards the front gate.

"If we look like guards, with a cleric chanting protective orations, we might be taken as part of the garrison."

The witch's face says she wants to argue; but resists. Not a total fool then. She dons the helmet and cloak. The helmet falls over her eyes, while she waggles the sword like a feather duster.

"What about my spider, then?"

It scuttles across the floor to sit before her like a dog. Still garlanded in periwinkles. It waves clusters of eyes to say 'yes, what about me'? I shrug. "Don't know, don't care, let's go."

And so we go.

Sister Fortuna is a comic denizen of the House of Saints. She has no holy testament, much less a full gospel. No churches bear her name, no chapel walls echo her orations. Most oft, you spy her statue in niches bordering quarters where prostitutes lounge and taverns with fountains of wine invite the passerby.

Still, even a scullery maid is servant to the master of the house. The least in the House of Saints bears a message to all creation.

But what exactly is Sister Fortuna's message? She sets you a feast, then slaps you with aches that end all joy in feasting. Drops a purse of gold onto your path, follows with a pack of wolves. And that is when she smiles. When Fortuna frowns, she settles for giving the aches and the wolves, skips the feast and purse of gold.

No sacred figure is easier to view in terms of the mad Lucretians' doctrine: the saints are mere faces we put upon wind, wave and shadow.

And yet, when the impossible happens, as it must in any life... when past all odds and obstacles one stands free and breathing, it seems to our eyes that the doors of the House of Saints have been thrust wide. And beyond those doors we glimpse the mysterious purpose to all our trials... while the Novice Fortuna stands demurely aside, smiling warm and wise as the summer sun.