The Message

 

Flint pulled a rune from the linen bag and placed it on the table across from the painted woman. Her elaborately decorated wagon was cloudy with incense. Outside, someone was playing a melancholy tune on on a violin. A dog barked, and children squealed.

She leaned forward, tiny bells sewn into her red silk head cloth jingled. One of her hands hovered over the tile carved from a troll's lower tusk, her many rings glinting in the candelight. The rune Ansuz was carved into the tile.

She ran a painted fingernail over the design, a vertical line with two parallel lines angling off the right side. It reminded Flint of a squashed version of the Elvenari letter 'F'.

"This is important." Her nail tapped the ivory. Her entire hand was covered in elaborate henna designs. "Ansuz is the 4th rune by the Northmen's reckoning, an auspicious number relating to the four directions of the wind."

A raven watching from a nearby stand said, "Northman. Northman."

Flint ignored the raven. It had been joining the conversation randomly for the past half hour. He nodded to the painted woman. "My friend Ulrich is a Northman. He has this design on his shield."

"The Northmen received much of their lore from the Dwarven people. Both associate this rune with truth and wisdom."

The raven echoed, "Truth."

She looked closer. "It could also mean that a message or insight is coming your way."

The raven echoed, "Message."

Flint considered her words. "I will meditate on this."

She nodded and handed him the rune and a dried mushroom. He placed a silver coin on her table. It had been clipped in half, a common occurrence in Salvania where half-coins were more common than complete ones.

The raven cooed, "Bye bye, baby." It hopped onto the table to examine the half-coin.

Flint chewed on the bitter mushroom as he walked across the sprawling camp of "witchy women," an appellation given by the dubious townies to all such traveling bands of outsiders, mostly women, who claimed to read fortunes.

The "witchy" camp was setup outside the White River Castle in the mostly empty field used for festival days and large celebrations of all kinds. The field could hold hundreds more wagons and tents. It would be full in a week when the summer solstice celebration assured a raucus, drunken mixing of distant traders and locals.

In nine months, he knew as sure as the sky was blue, a whole crop of new babies would doubtless come from this "mixing."

At the edge of the field, the ground sloped down to a tree-lined stream, one of many that fed the White River. He found a shady spot under a gently rustling willow and calmed his mind. He let his thoughts drift as the mushroom began to dissolve his consciousness. He had done this before, and the results were unreliable. Sometimes, he felt like he had encountered some kind of universal truth, other times, he just got sick.

He was staring into the wavering glints of the sun-kissed stream when the Sun God appeared to expand slowly from one of the ripples.

"Why have you called me, Small One?" The Sun God was just a face; it expanded before him, glowing and pulsing.

Flint did not know he had summoned a god. Disantly, he was pleased with this turn of events. Good mushroom.

"Oh wisest one, I seek the truth," Flint said with a kind of courtly gravitas he assumed was appropriate for talking to a god.

The Sun God laughed. "Man is always in search of meaning and truth."

"Great one, is this not a worthy goal?"

The face regarded him for a moment. "I will tell you a thing. Find whatever meaning you will, Small One."

Flint heard a distant whooshing in his ears, but the world had grown silent, listening. Flint thought it unfair that the world would learn wisdom for free when he had given up a half-silver for it. Suddenly suspicious, he looked around for the raven. That trickster might try to hear the answer and take it back to the painted woman.

The Sun God was speaking, but he could not hear the words. "There, Small One. Now you know," the god said. Slowly, he faded until he was just a glint in the river again.

"Fek!" Flint cried, his guts rumbling, his head swimming. A crushing disappointment landed on him, seemingly out of nowhere, like he had failed in the most important thing of his life.

Then the raven appeared, but it had blue eyes and red wings. Maybe it was a different raven.

"I know what he said," the raven cooed. Its voice sounded like the painted woman.

Flint felt his hope rise. Could he snatch victory from this miserable experience? His stomach churned again. He was going to be sick. Shit.

"Tell me," he begged. Nothing else in his life mattered at that moment.

"What will you give me?"

Before he could answer, he vomited violently. He gasped for air, then it came again. And again. He was sweating; his eyes watered.

At last, he fell back against the willow, exhausted. The raven hopped over to inspect the puddle of the morning's meal.

"Tell me," Flint groaned.

The raven stepped into the vomit and begn to sink.

"Tell me!" Flint cried. "Give me the truth!"

The raven actually smiled. How was that possible? "The truth? That's easy. Deception hides all truth. And the worst of all deceptions is self-deception."

When Flint woke up, some children were staring at him. His mouth tasted terrible, and his head was throbbing.

As he stumbled away, he did not notice the painted woman's raven watching him from the swaying branches.

"Truth. Truth," it cooed to itself.

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