Read Online Immortal at the Edge of the World by Gene Doucette - Free Book Online
Authors: Gene Doucette
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devils.
There is no such thing as a devil. Or suppose I should say that there is no species I’m aware of that uses that word to self-identify. I feel like I need to make this clear given what I’ve already said about demons and iffrits and so on. Devil is a word generally reserved for Judeo-Christian hell-spawn. They’re often described in a way reminiscent of satyrs—hooved feet, for instance—and satyrs are also real. Likewise, devils can prey on the living and are associated with the night, much like vampires, who are real as well.
Basically, if you took the worst aspects of demons, satyrs, and vampires, and threw in the personality of an iffrit, you’d have yourself something pretty close to a devil. But again, devils aren’t real. As far as I know.
It was nightfall by the time Hsu reached the clearing. I’d started a small fire by then, in anticipation of spending the night under the hanging tree and thinking about all the food I wished I could be cooking on said fire.
“Good thinking,” was what he said by way of a greeting. “It will get chill around here soon enough.” He tossed a pair of dead rabbits at my feet. “And now we can cook these.”
He’d arrived by leading his horse up the path rather than riding to me, which made his approach quieter. I had still heard him, but I was expecting someone so I was listening. It was a more polite entry, certainly. If I had heard someone riding hard toward me I might have braced for a less pleasant guest.
Rabbit was definitely one of the things I had been thinking of maybe cooking over my fire. I held them up. “Fresh,” I remarked.
Hsu sat down on the opposite side of the fire, cross-legged. It was a pose I associated with the Hindus of the Far East.
“It’s a gift. Not from me, from Garivald and his people. I told them it seemed a shame, you going away hungry.”
“Hungry, but with all my parts attached,” I said.
“If that is your bottom line, you must be a terrible peddler.”
I laughed. “On certain days, continuing to breathe comfortably is sufficient payment. On other days, a good meal and perhaps some wine.”
“Then wine we shall have,” Hsu said. Reaching into a saddlebag he pulled out a leather pouch and handed it to me over the fire.
“This village had wine to spare? I should have stayed longer.”
“No, this is mine.”
I took a sip, and handed it back, and then got to work skinning the rabbits. “You passed through Constantinople,” I said. “Your wine gives you away.”
“The wine wasn’t made in Constantinople.”
“Nothing is made in Constantinople. It is from a particularly fertile valley in the northeastern corner of the Mediterranean—whatever that territory is called this season—but the marketplace for this wine is Constantinople.” It should not be an enormous surprise to anybody that I am an expert in the field of alcoholic beverages.
“You could just say you like the wine.”
“It’s wine. I like it for being wine. I don’t expect that opinion to change.”
Hsu laughed and took a sip. I finished skinning the first rabbit, which is messy business. These days, when everyone washes their hands every time they touch a public surface, the idea of tearing the skin off an animal with a knife and your bare hands seems a lot nastier. Back then I wiped the blood off on a cloth, shoved the carcass on a stick, and moved on to the next rabbit, and thought back to a time when I would have just eaten the them raw, fur and all. It was not a fond recollection.
“So I have a lot of questions for you,” I said. “For starters, I wonder if you could tell me why I nearly lost my life back there. And maybe if there are any other towns around here that don’t take kindly to strangers?”
“To the last question, yes,” Hsu said. “There are several such places around here. You may wish to keep apace with the local realities. I can help.”
“Do you mean to ride into each town to talk the area priest into
There is no such thing as a devil. Or suppose I should say that there is no species I’m aware of that uses that word to self-identify. I feel like I need to make this clear given what I’ve already said about demons and iffrits and so on. Devil is a word generally reserved for Judeo-Christian hell-spawn. They’re often described in a way reminiscent of satyrs—hooved feet, for instance—and satyrs are also real. Likewise, devils can prey on the living and are associated with the night, much like vampires, who are real as well.
Basically, if you took the worst aspects of demons, satyrs, and vampires, and threw in the personality of an iffrit, you’d have yourself something pretty close to a devil. But again, devils aren’t real. As far as I know.
It was nightfall by the time Hsu reached the clearing. I’d started a small fire by then, in anticipation of spending the night under the hanging tree and thinking about all the food I wished I could be cooking on said fire.
“Good thinking,” was what he said by way of a greeting. “It will get chill around here soon enough.” He tossed a pair of dead rabbits at my feet. “And now we can cook these.”
He’d arrived by leading his horse up the path rather than riding to me, which made his approach quieter. I had still heard him, but I was expecting someone so I was listening. It was a more polite entry, certainly. If I had heard someone riding hard toward me I might have braced for a less pleasant guest.
Rabbit was definitely one of the things I had been thinking of maybe cooking over my fire. I held them up. “Fresh,” I remarked.
Hsu sat down on the opposite side of the fire, cross-legged. It was a pose I associated with the Hindus of the Far East.
“It’s a gift. Not from me, from Garivald and his people. I told them it seemed a shame, you going away hungry.”
“Hungry, but with all my parts attached,” I said.
“If that is your bottom line, you must be a terrible peddler.”
I laughed. “On certain days, continuing to breathe comfortably is sufficient payment. On other days, a good meal and perhaps some wine.”
“Then wine we shall have,” Hsu said. Reaching into a saddlebag he pulled out a leather pouch and handed it to me over the fire.
“This village had wine to spare? I should have stayed longer.”
“No, this is mine.”
I took a sip, and handed it back, and then got to work skinning the rabbits. “You passed through Constantinople,” I said. “Your wine gives you away.”
“The wine wasn’t made in Constantinople.”
“Nothing is made in Constantinople. It is from a particularly fertile valley in the northeastern corner of the Mediterranean—whatever that territory is called this season—but the marketplace for this wine is Constantinople.” It should not be an enormous surprise to anybody that I am an expert in the field of alcoholic beverages.
“You could just say you like the wine.”
“It’s wine. I like it for being wine. I don’t expect that opinion to change.”
Hsu laughed and took a sip. I finished skinning the first rabbit, which is messy business. These days, when everyone washes their hands every time they touch a public surface, the idea of tearing the skin off an animal with a knife and your bare hands seems a lot nastier. Back then I wiped the blood off on a cloth, shoved the carcass on a stick, and moved on to the next rabbit, and thought back to a time when I would have just eaten the them raw, fur and all. It was not a fond recollection.
“So I have a lot of questions for you,” I said. “For starters, I wonder if you could tell me why I nearly lost my life back there. And maybe if there are any other towns around here that don’t take kindly to strangers?”
“To the last question, yes,” Hsu said. “There are several such places around here. You may wish to keep apace with the local realities. I can help.”
“Do you mean to ride into each town to talk the area priest into
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