Free Travellers' Rest by James Enge Page B

it.
    “Er,” Wyrth said wittily. He was taken aback, and somewhat annoyed to see that Morlock himself was not: the crooked man was used to hearing these wild tales about himself. “Morlock drags liars to hell, does he?”
    “Everyone knows that. My mother says so.”
    “But—you don’t anticipate death soon, do you? I mean—”
    “It can happen to anyone. At any time. Isn’t that true? They can come for you and then you’re gone. So we have to be happy and good while we can. My mother says so.”
    “Well. Well. Right she is, of course.”
    “Who are they ?” Morlock asked.
    “Shut up, you old fool; you’ll frighten her. Never mind him, Raelio. He doesn’t mean any harm, as a general thing, but you have to practice ignoring him.”
    “They come for you from the hills,” the girl explained to Morlock, ignoring Wyrth instead. “And then you’re gone. We have to hope that you are dead. That’s the best we can hope for. That’s what my mother says.”
    “And is Morlock one of those who come from the hills?” Morlock asked. (Wyrth had to admit that his interest was perfectly natural.)
    “No, silly. They kill you in the hills and then Morlock and the angel fight over your soul. But the angel won’t fight for you if you’re a liar, so then Morlock gets you. My mother says so. Do you want something to drink? I was to start you with drinks and then inveigle you in innocent conversation. I guess I inveigled first, but I don’t know what that means exactly.”
    “Inveigled is—it means—Well, anyway, what have you got to drink?”
    “We have wine—”
    “No wine,” said Wyrth firmly, looking sideways at Morlock.
    “—the beer’s not bad; I had some at breakfast—”
    “No beer.”
    “Well we have a little mead from over the border, but—”
    “No mead. Have you got anything but strong drink? Water, or something of that description?”
    “Water’s all right, I guess,” the girl said dubiously. “Our well’s a little murky and we have to pay Gar Vindisc to use the stream.”
    “Get us some of his good water, my dear; we’ll pay you triple whatever it costs.”
    “Her. Her water. Gar Vindisc is one of the Old Women. What do you think ‘gar’ means?”
    “If I told you I knew, my dear, I would have some trouble with Morlock right quick.”
    “Wouldn’t you rather have thrinnel? I love thrinnel. It’s even better than beer!”
    Wyrth didn’t know what thrinnel was so he asked, “Is it strong drink? Can you get drunk on it?”
    “No, no. Babies drink it. It’s yummy.”
    “Well, if it’s yummy then we must have some. Now we move on to shiftier ground. What do you think they’re going to offer us for lunch, Raelio?”
    “Anything you want that we’ve got. The da is that excited to have people under the roof again.”
    “What’ve you got, then?”
    “Shellback brisket, shellback liver, shellback kidneys, shellback steaks and tripe, shellback-tail soup—”
    “Shellbacks are those remarkable cattle we saw coming into town?”
    “I guess.”
    “What is there beside shellback?”
    “Might be fish. Dry salted fish, from before winter.”
    “Seethe some of that in Gar Vindisc’s good water and bring it to us. Bread, too, as long as you don’t make it from shellbacks.”
    “And two shellback steaks,” Morlock added. Wyrth looked at him with a sense of deep betrayal, but Morlock shrugged his crooked shoulders and said, “Might as well see if it’s edible,” and Wyrth had to concede his point.
    Raelio fetched them wooden mugs of thick yellowish fluid (“Thrinnel!”) and ran off to carry their order to the back of the house. Both the master maker and his apprentice could now detect the presence of several fires in the house, and anyone with ears could have detected a man and a woman shrieking at each other, with excitement rather than rage, amid the clanking of much cookware. A brief silence prevailed, in the heart of which Raelio could be heard reciting their order.