Quee Quaig's Coffin, Book Two (part 2)
Quee Quaig's Coffin
Book Two
For the Geese (part II)
There were no inns in these parts, and Que Quaig and Carl were staying at small farms, trading gold or services for a night and a full belly. Sometimes they would stay longer during a harvest, enjoying the physical work that fed villages, but more often than not traded gold for lodging during fruit harvest season. Although they were not above it, perhaps Carl could consider himself below it, the labor of picking fruit, it was not their favorite activity.
But this was a different farm, it had a farmer and two children. There was a mound of fresh dirt and a cross with three bars at one end. When asked, he explained that his wife had died from sorrow, and was buried where she loved life the most, among her flowers.
A sad tale, said Que Quaig, but not unusual. Your pain must be great, but to see you shepherding your spawn through such trying times is the best medicine I truly believe.
Que Quaig, we don't call the little ones spawn
But that is what they are, is it not?
Sirs, said the farmer, I can see you are holy men. There is a group of unholy men who go from farm to farm collecting a “Donation” to the king. We don't have a king, we are an Autococritus Anarchy, but we cannot, as anarchists, organize enough of a defense to keep the unholy men from taking our grain, and sometimes wives and daughters. If you could perhaps convince your Gddess to shine her light of mercy on this wretched patch of land, as far from her kingdom as it is, we would sing songs of you for all time, and you would always have a home, and a grave in my wifes flower garden. Such a request, and then such a generous offer would have moved the noblest of Warrior Priests and Que Quaig and Carl unpacked their packs in the manger, and joined the man and his children for dinner.
We do not eat meat in this house. We say it is for the veneration of the animal's spirit, finding a niche in the natural order. The truth is, the priests of this area were horrible hunters, but talented gardeners. We don't eat meat, but because few of us have tasted it, nobody misses it. Our meals are simple, hearty, and filling. No animal flesh allowed. Would you say the blessing Half Elf, you seem a godly man.
It would be my honor Que Quaig said, turning on his charm. I pray to the Goddess of the Sea, is she an acceptable Goddess to pray to here?
All cats are gray in the dark, said the farmer, so long as the words are true, and kings all can hear and choose to act. To whom you speak in your prayers is unimportant for the honor is sent to the universe, and no one Gd rules all the parts. Although I have heard rumors. The farmer took a large spoon of his soup, carrots, potatoes, and other vegetables that delighted the tongue.
This is excellent, Carl said, Que Quaig, his mouth still full from his third bowl of soup and loaf of dark bread with fresh butter, nodded. The young girl smiled, turned pink, ducked her chin down and said
It was Mothers company stew. It was the first thing I learned how to make. I think she would be happy to see you sitting here eating it with my father.
I hope so, Carl said, she taught you well, and I am sure you will teach your daughters the same.
Tank Eee, sir the girl said and cleared the table and began the scullery work. Shortly she was joined by her brother who, to his shame and frustration, was dismissed from the table to help his sister.
Pipes were filled, Carl lit the bowls with his fingers, causing the farmer to recoil slightly. Magic was rare in these parts, usually mean tricks, and card tricks, and to have proof of such a thing sitting on your hearth made the magic seem that much more mystical. They smoked in silence and thought for a quarter of a candle when the farmer began to talk.
Back in the day of the oldest grandfather's stories, this was a wonderful land, the earth was lush, crops grew twice as fast and twice as full here than anywhere else. Quickly the town had a surplus, and being close to the river, he motioned North in the dark, we became a major port for grain and trade. Our town grew rich, but since we were all outcasts from our own kingdoms, we decided on a manner of rule. Every man is given two stones when he becomes a man. When there is a decision to be made, the opposing sides are put up on posters. Everybody in this Shire can read and write, it was important to the mothers and grandmothers, and the men of the village are wise in the ways of the world. And at an appointed time, the people bring their voices to the light. When all is said and done a clay jar is set by the well, and people can put in their stones. It used to be just the men, but it was quickly realized, when there was a month long nookie drought, that the women who are the backbone and ribs, to say nothing of the brain of our town, should vote as well. More stones were found and handed out. You cannot lose them, if they fall from your pocket, they reappear. And once a vote is done, the stone will reappear in your pocket, with a mark on the stone you cast. One grandfather had such a good life that his stone had grown to the size of his fist they say, all covered in marks. A white stone is a no, a black stone is a go. That is one of the first rhymes our children learn. Both his daughter and her younger brother nodded. When the time is filled the urn is broken and the stones are counted. The stones have final say, if there is one more stone out of a thousand on one side or the other, that is the way the vote goes. If there is a tie, and it has happened, The urn is put away for a full turning of the crops and brought out again. The stones, you see, having found their way back to their owners pockets, still marked with their choice. For generations this worked. The town grew more prosperous, and in our trusting nature we did not invest in any police or military, nor would we hire them if needed, we are a land of peace, and will stay that way. Others are more wicked than we, and seeing no defenses thought our town was like one of this spring sneezes on a shell that is so good. They started slowly, taking one in ten as a tax, but there was no way we could stop them, so we made them comfortable, thankful to have swords in the towns as the terrors of the river and the mountains seemed to have taken a fancy in our food stores. But every year it would grow worse, as they became more part of our society, the tax grew, until when I was a young man it was at half, and had been for as long as anybody could remember. You cannot live on half of what you grow, and the money of the town was soon depleted buying ever expensive food from other Shires. A broken town we sat, waiting for the men to leave like rats from an empty gainery. But they did not, they became more cruel. They could eat, and we could not and they tormented us with that fact. Eventually they started taking wives, young boys, and daughters. We would pray that they would never come back for the ones who did? They bore a madness that was impossible to cure, raving of demons, abberant sex with creatures from other planes. There were too many stories to dismiss them, but then we were stuck. If you throw a frog into boiling water, he will hop out and slap you. If you put a frog in a cold pot, and light a fire, he will thank you until he is boiled to death. This town was that frog, being boiled to death. He glanced over to the scullery to make sure his children were not listening. That is what happened to my Mariah. He sobbed. I came home from the fields to find her on the floor, our children being made to watch as three men had their way with her. I killed two with my bare hands, and the coward of the third hit me from behind. When I woke up, my children were trying to console my Miriah, all three crying. That night, after they were asleep, we fed them wine that night, Mariah asked a favor. When I heard it, I turned white and cold, but I saw her logic and there would be no changing her mind. Under the full moonlight, while she held her favorite goose we said our I love yous and I strangled the life from her. She was afraid she might become pregnant with a child, and would not do that to the world. Grabbing a shovel I would rather swing than dig, I buried her in her flower garden, with the cross of our faith above her head. It was the most difficult thing I have done, and the most noble. The next day, filled with remorse I took a bottle of pig medicine, a rope, and a very sharp knife to the tree that has a branch over the water. I threw my rope, noose already tied, over the branch, so my body would swingin the breeze over the river. Unsheathing the knife I drank the pigs medicine that would kill a man in minuters, put the blade to my throat, snugged the noose under my right ear and jumped. When I came down, the knife cut the noose, and I fell in the water. I was so surprised that I opened my mouth to shout and swallowed half the river, that made me throw up the Pig medicine, and if I wasn't such a good swimmer I would have died.
Well thank The Sea you didn't said Que Quaig. You were reborn my brother, like I was . Your water was fresh, and mine was salt but we both know the freedom of rising from the water, the taste of your Gd on your lips.
You have a poet's soul said the man, I would entreat you to tell me stories of your travels at a later date. These men must be stopped, my daughter is becoming a woman, and my son is of the age the others were. I will kill them myself
Father, the girl cried, don't say such wicked things, we shall just give them another pig and they will thank you and leave without their barrel of ale.
Ah that was so, my daughter, said the farmer, now to bed. We still have much to talk about, and I fear little pitchers have big ears. Both the daughter and son giggled at that, and saying their good nights went up to bed for prayers and sleep.
You are a mighty Druid, I can tell the man said, before you go, could you perhaps bless this house or our graves in the name of your Queen?
Goddess, said Carl, Of course. The Lady of the Sea welcomes all who embrace her mercy. It would be an honor.
House or graves, said the farmer. I fear it may be the latter.
And you must excuse me, my audience. As I have said before, I am growing old, and I need a rest room at this time. Stand, stretch, walk about, have some wine or a snack, I will be back shortly.
I am back, find your seats, I entreat you. There is much left to tell, for we have yet to get to the second ask. I lit the fire with the same match I had used to light my cigar, settled in my chair and resumed the horrific tale of Shire Cascadia.
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