26 January 2013
A curious thought occurred to Kashmar which drew him out of his dullness, “Are you weighing the importance of the dead on how many others they have killed?”
“Well of...” he stopped, shocked by his own answer. He regained his voice and justified himself, “My meaning was that kings...and lords are remembered by their military success; their deaths in battle are honored with funeral pyres. These men did not demonstrate much strength in the battle, and so it seems this honor raises them higher than their acts warrant."
“They had the strength enough to join the battle, Beren. But should you not put aside this idea, at least, since they are dead?” Considering what he had said, Kashmar ventured in a more precarious direction, “In fact, something has come to my mind, an instance which stirs up thoughts. Upon the hill, after that regrettable circumstance with Danforth, I saw a man carrying away the body of an Oriab. I observed the dead man, and at once I was possessed of an ill feeling, which, thinking on it now, I know to be some form of guilt. Quite strange it is; I did not kill him, nor any of his fellows, yet the feeling smote me in the back so that I stooped over. It has since left me, but it causes me to wonder.” Interest overcoming restraint, in a quiet voice, and with careful consideration, he asked the question, “How terribly must remorse strike one who has actually killed?” He awaited an answer.
Starting, his eyes darkened, Beren turned away from the innkeeper, I felt no remorse, he thought. I never even thought to feel remorse. His hand sought support on a pillar. I killed so many; my sword was thick with blood; their weapons lay shattered at my feet. It was a victory! Yet...a victory, without remorse, without sorrow for death…how could it be so? How could I not regret? What of the common portrait of the conqueror-king Jaldersong, kneeling in sorrow over his slain enemy? Do not the legends speak of him as the most honorable king? I do not feel his virtuous remorse...where is it? Where is it, Jaldersong? He imagined the weeping king and tried to find tears in himself. None. Oh, if you could grant me but a few moments...curses upon me if I can have no remorse! A glimmer invaded his mind, a glimmer of a shroud. The glimmer faded in and out of existence, all the time reappearing in sudden movements. Beren stumbled to the ground, his eyes baptized. Great was his happiness. The sorrow murders me with narrow stabs: deal a fatal blow, joyous guilt! The fearful weeping entombed him. Strong and bright, the glimmer pivoted into a spectral force of threatening magnificence. Beren cried in terror, No, kill me not! None have gone so far. I must tear myself from this. I know I have this virtue now, but I would not have it end me. The terror became madness. Yet what cure is there for a poison already drunk?
A voice answered him, “I am sorry. I will silence my questioning.” Kashmar held out a cup, “Come, friend Beren, free yourself. Here is some ale.” Beren grasped for the cup through his dulled vision, only finding it after many attempts. “Forgive me for my asking. It was on my mind, and I...”
Slowly, after taking a draught, Beren whispered, “It was a worthy question.”
“Good, good, and now it is answered,” said Kashmar hurriedly, trying to sound cheerful. “But you spoke of something before: what was it? Ah, yes, it was about the pyre. You said you disliked it.”
“Yes, that I did say,” Beren said, recovering. “I can hardly explain it.”
“You’re thinking it through too much,” said the innkeeper, “and I know exactly why that is. It’s…” He frowned. “Well, I suppose you’d know better than I would. In any case, there’s no need to be so glum. The battle was a victory, after all.”
“Yes, yes, no need to remind me: I can’t forget.” He looked up at the pyre again. “To be honest, it’s not really the men burning that bother me. It’s the fire.”
“The fire?” He frowned again. “What do you mean by that?”
“Oh, never mind. Let’s talk about something else.” He thought of something shallow, “I heard the king granted a man fifty pounds of gold a fortnight ago for killing a group of traitorous merchants.”
The innkeeper nodded, “I heard the same, except it was sixty pounds. Lordship may…”
“That’s not all I want,” interrupted Beren. “It would be welcome to see more fortifications and soldiers here, in case of another attack. If ever I should see the king, or even one of his officials, I would make the suggestion to him.” Beren sighed, for he had said this only to appear more good-natured than he was, and he already wished he had not done so.
Kashmar laughed, forgetting the need to lighten his friend's mood, “I’m sure you will…right after you tell him the story of how Beren the Great single-handedly killed one hundred Oriabs.” He continued to laugh.
Beren scowled, “Don’t mock me. I’ve told you before that I would tell only the truth. It would be unwise to begin relations with anyone important by lying. Lies need to be concealed, told only to few, so that news of them does not reach knowledgeable ears; I’m afraid lies just don’t work with kings, for everything said to the king except in utmost secrecy is generally known within a month. Truths, on the other hand, can always be made publically known: the truth need never be concealed.”
“Now I whole-heartedly disagree,” said the innkeeper, raising his voice. “Public truth is no truth at all. Truth is the only thing that ever should be hidden!”
A look of surprise came across Beren’s face, “Oh, really. Why?” Kashmar’s unusual claim had fully, though quite unintentionally, restored Beren's spirits.
The innkeeper whet his lips, as if to prepare for the beginning of a grand speech, “Let’s say there is a man named Wise, and this man possesses a truth. Wise, being a very wise man, will consider what the best course of action is for dealing with this truth. The first possibility is to make it known all around the world. Now what would be an example of such a truth, a truth known to all? Well…hmm…what about this: ‘It is dishonorable to kill an unarmed man.’ Now consider that: do you consider that to be a truth? No! That, to you, is common sense. So how is one to know if it was ever realized by someone such as Wise? There is no way. What is the issue with all this? Well, what is common sense? Common sense, Beren, is a collection of ‘truths’ invented by society. No one knows where they came from or if they actually are ‘true.’ So, back to the situation, what would happen if Wise revealed his truth to the world? It would be mistakenly greeted by the next generation as common sense. So, if a man of that following generation decided one day to consider Wise’s truth, he would be slightly skeptical as to the truth of it. So Wise, in his action, catalyzed the reduction of his truth into something less than what it is! A mere invention! Now how could he have avoided this? What is the only way to deal with this issue? Well, honestly, the only way to preserve the validity of a truth is to conceal it, so that only those willing to accept it in all its veracious glory will find it,” he finished proudly with a smug grin.
Beren crossed his arms, hiding his surprise, “I must say, you’ve thoroughly convinced me. Well, now I feel I must prove myself to you, philosopher.”
“Oh, really…then…prove to me that the king is not mad.”
“We’ve already been over this,” he said, frowning.
“Yes, but you have never proven it to me.”
Beren paused to consider this, “How can I begin to prove it without knowing the man?”
Kashmar leaned towards Beren, “Follow my example and define madness.”
“Well, madness is…well…doing things that no one in their right mind would do.”
The innkeeper laughed, “Really? Madness is doing things people who are not mad would not do? That’s not very sound logic.”
“I dislike this argument,” said Beren angrily.
“Fine,” said the innkeeper, retrieving his hat from the ground. “Then create another.”
“What could I prove that would match your dissertation?”
The innkeeper placed the hat firmly on his head, “How could I know?”
“Well, think of something worthwhile.”
Kashmar adjusted his hat, “No, no. I tire of this game. Let us speak of other matters.” He paused to generate a topic of conversation. “Have you seen Danforth?”
“I suppose he’s probably still at the inn.”
The innkeeper grimaced, “He is a very strange man, and I can’t say I won’t be happy when he leaves.”
“How could you say such a thing?” said Beren, incredulous. “He saved Celphaïs!”
“No, that was you,” said a voice. Out of the shadows a man wearing rough, wool garments and an embroidered cloak and clutching a psaltery emerged. For a moment Beren shuddered violently at the thought that this could be the musician he had heard so many times near the inn: as the man played a few disconnected chords, though, he realized that it could not be. The man continued in a soft, staccato voice, “That sorcerer had nothing to do with this. He’s a mere man, but you, Beren, are greater. You come from the sky and rain upon the fields of the ocean and stab the flesh of the filthy orbs. They rest like sheep while you let your hands rip the hide from their bones. That man Danforth can only create a flame or a mild curse. Such things are too noble for you.”
Beren stood in shock, trying to find meaning in the words.
“I am the son of the father of a merchant,” said the man. “Merchants are noble folk.”
What is he talking about? thought Beren. I’ve never heard anyone call a merchant noble. “Remember that when you’re killing one. Merchants are noble folk. Remember that when you’re dead.”
“Get away, you drunkard!” said Kashmar.
“What?” said the man, surprised. “Am I drunk?”
The innkeeper nodded, “I’d hope so.”
“No, it’s not true! I’m a noble man! A merchant!” At this point he had drawn the attention of some nearby. “I’m a man of noble blood! I need that title! Nothing exists without the intercession of the noble! Vile blood of the dead shall spill from the hearts of t
Danforth (Chapter 3 continued) • Opuss № I