Slumrat Rising

Chapter 102: Very Fine Ducks

Truth discovered a new sort of agony that morning. It turns out that being stuck in a five-seater carriage with an old monster you don’t trust and two people you blew up at is excruciating. And they were stuck in traffic. If he was riding his trusty iron horse, he could split the lanes and be there already. Or they could spend the modest sum necessary to hire a flying carpet. Or, given that Merkovah was Level Seven and clearly a person of some importance in Siphios, he could probably simply summon a flying spirit to carry them wherever they wanted to go, flight paths be damned.

But no. No, it was apparently critically important that they travel in the allegedly disguised deathtrap that was Merkovah’s carriage. With its mismatched paint, screeching axles, and a general air of being too crap for the chop shops to bother with. Apparently, they had to be “discreet.” Every time Merkovah tapped the brake, the metallic howl could be heard half a kilometer away. Truth was quite sure he wasn’t translating “discreet” correctly.

He didn’t even think to bring a book. Misery.

Xandre hadn’t lost its mystery or its charm in the few days he had been there. Everything seemed to have a hidden meaning or a history to it. A corner might have a water spout jutting from a wall pouring into a basin shaped like cupped hands. Why? Who knows. You could ask the statue of an armored warrior fighting a monstrous lizard in the nearby plaza. It might know. It’s certainly not shy about sharing its opinion on every other thing. Perhaps the wall itself could tell you as it faintly shivered and flexed in the morning sun.

Everywhere people were moving through each other’s homes. Or perhaps through their “spaces” would be a better way to think about it. Truth noticed that the people in Xandre really liked to touch one another or stand close by. It was very common to see people walking together, holding hands. They often didn’t appear to be a romantic pair. They just found it comfortable. It seemed… nice. Not sexual or controlling, just being comfortable with another person. More casual than a hug.

He tried to pinpoint the moment when being touched started freaking him out. He couldn’t think of a specific moment. After he was killed, obviously. Maybe on his journey to Siphios? But he couldn’t think of something that would have formed such a huge psychological allergy. More remnants of System fuckery, or another “gift” from his various patrons? It didn’t feel the same.

At some point, his body had colluded with some hidden part of his mind and decided that people were never to be trusted. Since anyone could turn on you, everyone would turn on you. And since you can only be hurt by the things that touch you, don’t let them touch you.

Well. There was probably more to it than that. Truth silently sighed. He would apologize to Jember and Etenesh when he could get them alone.

The questionable carriage made its winding way around the city, eventually parking on a residential side street.

“The sign says “No Parking,” Teacher.” Jember pointed upwards.

“It does say that, yes.” Merkovah smiled beatifically. “One of the spells on the carriage- if the police scan it, they will find I have a special Royal Dispensation to park wherever I want.”

“Seriously?” Truth blurted.

“Oh yes. But every time the privilege gets triggered, it also triggers a endless debate in the Palace over the appropriate privileges to award to those in the Temple. The arguments haven’t changed in centuries. It is heart-stoppingly boring. We’ll have to risk it. Come on.”

They rushed their way up the tree-shaded street to what looked like a park. This park brought back memories of Harban- it was surrounded by a seven-meter-tall brick wall topped with decorative but sharp iron spikes. Naturally, the wall was enchanted and warded. The two decorative statues of lions by the gate were, equally naturally, golems. Merkovah pulled something from one of his many pockets and showed it to the lions. He was quite secretive about what, exactly, it was. The lions were satisfied and they opened the gate.

The park was neither big nor small, about the size of a city block. The trees were fairly incredible. Some reminded him of broccoli, with a thick, smooth trunk topped by a dense dome of leaves and brilliant pink flowers. Others spread wide, extending their branches and leaves out like serving platters to catch the sun. Everything seemed harmonious and in bloom. And empty. The park was perfectly empty on this sunny, pleasant morning.

“So. You are all probably wondering why I dragged you out here, what with everything going on in the world.” Merkovah started abruptly speaking as he lead them deeper into the park. “It’s really very simple- the ducks here are extraordinary.”

Truth was glad to see he wasn’t the only one with no idea of how to respond to that.

“These are truly remarkable ducks. Almost certainly the very finest you shall ever see. We are very fortunate, both personally and as a nation, that they have chosen to nest here. Building this park for their privacy and enjoyment was really the least we could do.”

“And what is it they do? For Siphios?” Truth asked.

“They simply are. I brought you all here because the last week has been rough. First, with your revelations on the mountain and then the atrocity at the stadium. Consider this another aspect of your training, Etenesh, Jember. A job bonus from me, Tommy. You will need these.” He reached into one of his larger pockets and produced three small bags.

Truth peeked inside. It was a small handful of seeds.

“We are feeding the ducks?”

“Yes, these are very high-quality seeds. Just a few at a time. No rush.”

He ushered them to a stone bench next to an elegant pond. Tall reeds surrounded the far edge, while a handsome tree provided shade for the bench and the close edge of the pond. It was nice, in a completely boring way.

After a few moments, two ducks came paddling out. A dun color, with a reddish patch around the eyes and a thick beak. They seemed to be perfectly adequate ducks on first glance, though Truth might not have stretched “adequate” all the way to “extraordinary” or “remarkable.” There was no second glance, however.

His eyes stayed firmly fixed on the ducks. They were just so… ducky. He couldn’t think of a word for it. If the perfect idea of what a duck is, and should be, existed somewhere in the cosmos, then these ducks were much closer to that ideal than any other duck Truth had ever seen. He dug out a seed and flicked it towards a duck. The duck ate it with apparent satisfaction.

“The Meditations of Valentinian, young man. Look at them and meditate on the ideal you. One that excludes all unwanted magic. One that permits only what you wish to permit into you, and releases only what you wish to release.” Merkovah’s voice whispered in his ear.

Truth had always struggled with the Meditations. It was the visualization aspect. Which was a bit like saying he struggled with running marathons because of the running part. It was comparatively easy to selectively toughen parts of the body temporarily. Permanent gains were elusive. And the more he pushed his body, the tougher the foes he fought, the more he realized that his “useful” trick wasn’t really that useful. He could have visualized his hand as being utterly fireproof, and those demons would have melted straight through it regardless. Not enough time practicing the spell. Not enough built up improvements. Not… real enough. Like the ducks.

The Meditations started running in the back of his mind. In the forefront was the ducks. The supremely real ducks. Looked just like any other ducks but were, somehow, the best ducks. He got it now. In a way that looking at angels, demons and even Temple Nag Hamadi never quite could convey. Here was something he could understand and relate to. A duck. A duck that was more real than the pond it swam in. It could interact with things. It liked the seeds. It seemed to like the park. But these were things it permitted. It was more than just the seeds or the park. It didn’t need those… externalities.

Truth didn’t need the externalities. He could want things. Nothing wrong with wanting things. Perfectly human thing to do. He just needed to separate the wants from the needs. Then once he had managed that minor feat, he just had to stay strong in his position on which was which. Fortunately, the Meditations was all too happy to help with that.

As were the worms. Truth hadn’t intended they participate. But it seemed like there was no stopping them. They bored out from whatever place they hid within him, appearing by his apertures and beginning their usual winding circuit. He could feel them make their way through him, from the boundary of his skin to the marrow of his bone. Digging. Refining. Solidifying. He found his attention pulled to them, trying to understand what it was they were doing, exactly.

Truth’s thinking was that the skin represented a sort of boundary- a combination of a wall and a sack. A wall to keep things out, a sack to keep things in. The wall would forbid all magic and cosmic energy that he didn’t want to go into the sack. It was a spiritual construction. The sack was, well, him. His apertures, channels, organs, flesh, bones, every material part of him. He thought that, since he was trying to build a wall, the worms would focus on the skin. The worms disagreed.

The worms appeared to see nothing special about the skin. They carefully and diligently went through his body, gently reinforcing every cubic millimeter of him. It slowly occurred to Truth that they were, by means of this magical enhancement, making his body more physically durable and more real. The worms, at least, didn’t make a distinction between the physical and the spiritual. Which was a hell of a take from glowing worms representing the spiritual legacy of a godlike supernatural being.

Truth felt like he was being subtly scolded. He thought about it and tried to think why he might feel that way. Nothing immediately leapt to mind. His mind wandered to his two role models- Botis and the rough, handsome man. Botis was, of course, immensely self-contained. He had scales, for Heaven’s sake! Well, not “Heaven,” obviously. But Botis could be said to have a wall between him and the world. The rough patron did not. He just sat around a fire, doing whatever he wanted.

Botis watched the world, but when seen in his stellar abode, he was clearly not a part of it. Botis existed alone, needing nothing else, desiring nothing else. The rough patron was sitting around a fire in a recognizable landscape. There was the smell of marshes. He lived in a living world. Was there a lesson there?

Who did he want to be? Botis, alone and untouchable, or the rough patron who embraced the world? And whose worshipers apparently included the Ghūl, couldn’t forget that. It would be… unwise to simply assume his goodwill. Or, indeed, that he was good. Of course, it’s not like the literal demon from Hell Botis was anything good, either. He just wasn’t evil in the way most people used that word. Botis wasn’t so much cruel as uncaring. At least, that’s what Truth believed.

Neither struck Truth as being unhappy. So which route did he want to follow? Proud isolation and perfect self-sufficiency, or to exist in the world and be sufficient within it? He almost laughed. How silly was he? A Level Three standing in judgment of two godlike beings. For now, he would become more. He would let his weight on the world slowly gather. When he was strong enough, he would decide what to cut and what to keep.

And in the meantime? There were excellent ducks to watch.