umpteenth

AS one ascends the Saddlebag Mountain Ridge in the dark, cold hour of a final calendar day, you would not find the ripping silence of the New Age screaming across the crest, or see its bleak, black outline against the stoney cropping. Rather, there would be a humble gathering of the Saddlebag Harem, held every year, around the deep yellow flames set at the center of the mountain's crown.

"For auld lang syne, my jo
for auld lang syne,
we'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet,
for auld lang syne."

When the rich voices of the harem poesy came to a close, a bedraggled figure would draw himself up to the center of the crowd, and the flames would settle into the earth, orange, as though they too sought to hear the tales of the Sin Eater.

A DEAD KING SOAKS HIS HEAD
I.

     I was familiar with the land of the Pueblo-Mesas and had been before they became the Pueblo-Mesas, but the beauty of the land has only increased in the years and is always worth the visit. Long ago, when the mountain Corona was razed by fearful spirits (like many, in those days), men across the world were distraught to see yet another bulwark destroyed. But, through the ingenuity of their leader, one group was able to survive the ravaging winds that poured from the darkly heavens—by carving deep into the leveled rock, they could construct abodes and subterranean tunnels by which to live (much the same as our own catacombs). This is how the Pueblo-Mesas were founded, in the early days.

     Because the spirits never venture far from their valleys in the New Age, life on the mountains was guaranteed a safe one, provided they had shelter, vittles, and none sought to harm their own. And the Pueblo-Mesas had all of these and more, for they had been blessed with a large mountain spring that pooled at the center of their quickly developing flatlands. Their exports are well-known in the Wastes, for surely by now you've had a sugared prickly-pear, or the richly aromatic cactus juice? (As always, I have brought back plenty for you to enjoy whilst my tale goes on.)

     But this year dealt the kindly Pueblo-Mesas a devastating blow. On the eve of the Great King's Eleventy-First birthday, the king was found dead in his bedchamber, a drowning in his personal bath. Though it was unlike most drownings in these days. As you may well know, due to the abundance of subterranean streams, tapped from that magnificent spring, many residents of the Pueblo-Mesas enjoyed deep, cool pools within their abodes, always drawn, always fresh. That night, as the people would later tell me, he was found neatly prostrate, in ceremonial garb, with only his head fully submerged.

     There were no signs of a struggle, but the chutzpah required for a suicide of this magnitude was not only very unlike the king (who I had come to know well from my frequent pilgrimages) but almost entirely impossible to do with such poise or precision. Shortly upon my arrival at the Pueblo-Mesas, it had been abundantly clear to me what had happened: a possession.

II.

     My seasonal pilgrimages take me all across the Wastes, and depending on the year, weather, or Wills, there are some lands that I am absolutely prohibited from visiting. (The Fingers of the Chiquita, as you all better well know, were swallowed up years ago by a malevolent fog, rendering safe passage there and beyond utterly impossible.) But the cheery tabletops of the Pueblo-Mesas have always been available and remain the beginning of each of my journeys. This will have been my 25th year of travel, and though each one bears its own remembrances (goodly and vile alike), this years is perhaps the most harrowing yet, filled to the brim with an evil that I had not thought the world to know again so soon, which I had hoped receded with its foul ilk into the crevices wrought in the Old Age. This evening my tale will foist a responsibility in part upon my listeners, to heed my words with an open heart and act as we have just sung with a "cup o' kindness yet, for auld lang syne."

     From the Saddlebag Ridge to arrive on foot at the Pueblo-Mesas, it is probably best estimated at a 12-day journey, if you travel along the mountain paths and do not tarry long in the peaceful forests. Though truly, the splendor of the New Age is found in its tremendous forests. The recession of man and his evil has allowed for the natural way of things to cleanse the land like a holy baptismal promise of sorts: "Life begins anew." Many a days I have spent wandering in the deep green, at peace, one with earth. An old squirrel will sit with me at an old oak by an old juniper bush and I'll recount my years and for a moment I myself am not so old... The vibrance of the New World nearly blinds me and I am filled with hope. Each of my pilgrimages have needed this quiet moment, this centering, before once more emerging into the world of man and spirits, as without this hope I would have been broken long ago.

     It is a 12-day journey, but I take my time, and oftentimes I wander.

     When I arrived in the Pueblo-Mesas, it had been two days since the king's death, and a hilland guard informed me of what had transpired. I was seized with a growing sense of dread as we drew closer to the mesa and asked the guard to sit awhile as she recounted the events to me. An uneasy wind had been nipping at our heels, and I predicted would continue to the top. The guard gave me a sugared prickly-pear and we continued to mount the hillocks.

     Though impossible to perceive in any conventional sense, an inky dark had settled upon the tabletop town, and its denizens were draped in similar hues for mourning. The shimmering pool, once the land's pride, bore a sickly sheen, and was eerily still amidst the brewing winds—not a jot of debris or hush of breeze seemed to disturb it. I followed the guard to the king's burrow, and noticed as we descended the eyes from the creeping shadows of the whispering village: stark and roving.

III.

     Death comes to man easily these days; there are few who have yet to experience it, but it is not so shattering a thing as in the Old World. We lack medicines, technology, the means to prevent such easy deaths like those by old metals, consumption, even cold and fever... In the Old World, death was quite an affair, because it shook the people of their reveries. When death struck it was unavoidable, accidental, or premeditated, and it unraveled the fabric that had been woven to smother the sublime laws of life in favor of silent, subservient ones.. They distracted themselves from the truths of the world for their half-truths. Men feared to fear, and buried their fears and lost their way.

     But, O, I digress. This is all to say that this death was much like those old deaths. It stunk, it lingered in the air, symbolic of some greater hidden truth, or magnified lie. The bedchamber was dark and cool, the windows in the ceiling had been covered and the breeze quietly surged along the dusty floor. The hilland guard led me to the bath and stood back. "Sin Eater," she said. "We have already removed his excellency, our king, according to custom. But if you must, you may examine his remains." Looking into the pool, my fears were confirmed—a shadow traveled within the dark reflections.

     "Child," I said. "Are all the springs of sickly pallor?"

     "Aye, Sin Eater. Since the king's death, the mountain too has mourned his departure."

     "You fools." I rose to my feet. "Tale me to the body of the king. Though we may pursue harmony with it, the earth cares not for the woes of man. This is magic most foul."

     Beneath the foundations of the Pueblo-Mesas was the mausoleum, scraped out in those first days for the carried dead who did not witness the cornerstones of the mesas. It was here the hilland guard left me, to the rooms where the dead were embalmed and prepared. Beyond this point the uninitiated in death were prohibited. The crypt master surfaced and brought me to the king and pulled back the silken sheet that laid atop him.
     "Of course, we've already begun the embalming process, as according to our customs, but we have yet to work the head and upper torso. I would be happy to answer any questions, but not in here." He felt uneasy, as did I. The same lingering dread from the bedchambers hung in here as well.
     "While I examine the body, you can inform the crier that I cannot perform the rites until I divine the origins of the kings misfortune.. It seems as though there is a greater plot at work." Hesitating, he nodded and left the room, leaving me with my old friend.
     I waited a while before fastening the belts on my leg and began to rub salts on my hands and face. I laid a circle round the table and muttered the charms handed down to me from my master. An old practice that I hated, but nonetheless needed to perform. Whenever everything was in place, I laid my hand on the king's brow and whispered his true name, "Firenzo.. Wake up."
     There was in that moment utter silence. No longer the whistle of the wind or even the rushing of my own blood filled my ears. A negative space, a "lifting of veils" the uneducated call it. It was closer to a vacuum—rifts opened, gaping. But that's neither here nor there. His spirit did not come. I waited for the crypt master to come and scattered the salt and returned to the surface with him.
     "How was the king, in his final days?" Though, as I presumed, this was no question for a man who spent his days with the dead. Rather, he told me, for the grieving prince. We traveled to the shallow levels of the intricate tunnels, and wove our way to the prince's chambers.