Dreams of the Compass Rose (35 page)

“
You are?” exclaimed Lord Ostavi, staring at Lord Dava, and beginning to roar like a bear. “Then you are not here to apologize to me?”

“
May this whole city be stricken before I apologize to an old baboon like you! I would rather—”

“
Once upon a time,” Annaelit said in a hypnotic voice, “a wicked minor god—nay, a benevolent god with a wicked sense of humor and a tendency to disguise the extent of his love in the form of sarcastic laughter—decided that humankind in and of itself contained very little to amuse the divine Pantheon.”

“
Oh!” Princess Makeia said again, this time suddenly twitching her cheek. She pretended to move an impeccably coiffed lock of hair behind her ear, which unfortunately threw her carefully draped veils into disarray.

“
And so,” continued Annaelit, “one godlike morning, this deity gathered a fistful of his beard shavings, and shook it out profusely over the universe.”

Lord Ostavi attained a very intense look on his face, somewhat between a frown and a sneeze, and then he vigorously scratched behind his right ear, and then the side of his nose.

“
The god shook the beard shavings over the universe, to all the four corners of the Compass Rose. And wherever his stubble fell, little annoying creatures called fleas appeared.”

“
What? Argh!” exclaimed Lord Dava and clenched his fists, at the same time clenching other parts of himself unknown to all in order not to scratch himself in unseemly places.

And in that moment all around the hall guests began to shift in place. Suddenly everyone’s hands moved involuntarily to scratch—some overtly, others in stealth—and then rearrange clothing as politely as possible.

“
What in the world is going on?” someone asked, slapping himself in reflex, and no longer bothering to hide it.

“
Fleas!” Annaelit said loudly and cheerfully. “Now then, the fleas were put on this earth for a very good reason. Does anyone know what it is?”

“
This is an abomination!” growled Lord Ostavi, scratching himself with both hands now, and rotating his shoulder blades because there was a place at the small of his back that he just couldn’t reach.

“
Sorcery!” cried out Lord Dava. He ran a couple of steps and sat down on the closest divan, and began to rub his back against the nearby marble pillar.

“
I always knew you were a monkey,” panted Lord Ostavi between bouts of itching, while he rubbed at his belt and his armpits. “Just look at you, a young good-for-nothing, making a fool of himself.”

“
Really? And you are such an example of noble restraint,” responded Lord Dava with a sneer of handsome white teeth, as he violently rubbed the backside of his knees, then his stomach.

“
Oh stop it, both of you!” exclaimed the Princess Makeia, as she scratched her sides and then her waist, moving against the high back of her chair. “And you, Annaelit, in the name of all the gods, stop this—this—whatever it is! I cannot stand this terrible itching!”

The guests began to hurriedly vacate the hall. There were moans and groans and growls as they left the room, some racing outside, others beginning to jump up and down in a frenzy.

“
Now look! My evening is ruined!” Makeia wailed, ripping off her veils and using them to rub her back like a towel strung out taut in both hands, while her abundant hair came out of its lovely arrangement.

In the mayhem Annaelit alone stood still as an island.

“
My Princess,” she said. “This is not my doing. For I am only the vessel, the voice that tells the story that has to be told.”

“
It must be that idiot Dava, then!” cried Lord Ostavi, stomping his feet and jumping up and down in place. “Didn’t he just say that he’d rather this whole place be stricken with something or other than apologize to me? Obviously some gods must’ve heard him!”

“
Argh!” cried Lord Dava, sliding back and forth against the seat of the divan with his behind. “I have nothing to do with this, I swear before all!”

“
As I was saying,” continued Annaelit. “Does anyone know the purpose of fleas?”

“
I do!” roared Lord Ostavi. “They are an abomination of the gods, sent upon us as a punishment for our transgressions! Let me know what must be done, and I will do whatever it is I have to do, and sacrifice gold in whatever temple—”

“
I am very sorry, my Lord, but that is incorrect,” Annaelit said. “Anyone else care to respond?”

“
No!” cried Lord Dava. And then he amended, “Yes! Fleas are a trial of our patience, and we must endure them in silence and nobility—”

“
Once again, not so.”

“
Argh! For the sake of mercy, woman, tell us!”

Princess Makeia had gotten up and was prancing up and down in a frenzy. She lost one of her slippers and it went flying under the divan across the room. “Fleas . . .” she said between gulped breaths, “are obviously here to . . . to make a laughingstock of us for the gods! I mean, look at us!”

And immediately Princess Makeia grew still as the itching left her. She stood reeling, then cleared her throat as though nothing had happened and ran her fingers through her tousled hair. She looked absolutely charming.

“
Very good, my Lady,” Annaelit said. “You have stumbled upon one of the reasons, and you are thus freed.”

Makeia looked around in relief and confusion, seeing that there was no one else left in the chamber besides Annaelit, herself, and the two lords.

Lord Dava had gotten up from his seat by this point, and he and Lord Ostavi were dancing like desert nomad madmen, their hands flailing every which way and sweat running down their faces.

“
All right, all right!” Lord Dava began to scream finally, “I will apologize!” And, turning toward Lord Ostavi while continuing to scratch himself everywhere, heedless of how it appeared, he gasped, “I am sorry, Lord Ostavi! I beg your—argh—your humble forgiveness—owh!—for saying certain disrespectful things to you when a guest in your house!”

“
I accept your—argh—apology!” retorted Lord Ostavi, as he leaped around with unexpected lightness for someone of such a bulky frame.

“
There!” cried Lord Dava, “I’ve apologized! Let this hell be done with!”

But oddly enough there seemed to be no relief for the two lords, and they continued their macabre jumping spree.

“
Hmm . . .” mused Annaelit, putting a finger to her lips, which normally seemed to help her concentrate. “This is a bit unexpected, my Lords. I was so very sure that an apology and your congenial peacemaking on both sides would result in an end to your ordeal. After all, the moral of the story was to have you picking fleas off each other and thus amusing the gods.”

“
Lord Dava, could you get me right there, please?” said Lord Ostavi, turning with his back to the other. “Yes, there, just a little higher, yes!”

“
No problem, Lord Ostavi,” replied Lord Dava, scratching the other vigorously between the shoulder blades. “Now, would you mind getting me, please, my good friend? Right here, yes! Oh yes!”

And as Lord Ostavi in turn rubbed his former enemy’s back, both of them moaning in agony, Annaelit and the Princess Makeia watching them in blank puzzlement, Annaelit mused out loud: “Maybe we need to present them with a Trade Agreement to sign, before the gods choose to set them free?”

“
You know, that’s not a bad idea,” retorted the Princess, and then immediately called over some vigorously scratching servants to fetch city scribes and lawyers.

As the servants went on their errands, dancing in an itch-frenzy, Princess Makeia took her turn to muse aloud. “I wonder if this divine flea infestation is all over the city, or if it has only honored my house?”

Her question was answered within the hour as two lawyers and three scribes dressed in fine clothing came jumping into the hall, scratching themselves with a fury that comes only with their honorable professions, and carrying a hastily written-up Trade Agreement.

“
I’ll sign it, whatever it is!” screamed Lord Dava as he lay on the marble floor, flailing his feet in the air, while Lord Ostavi continued to spring up and down and shake himself like a newly hatched and yet somewhat portly chicken.

“
What’s this?” Lord Ostavi moaned, squinting, holding the parchment with one hand as with the other he rubbed his ankles. After one of the scribes had read it to him, he went on, “All it says here is that we agree to trade! Where are the details? The caravans? The bales of silk? Boxes of spices?”

“
My Lord, have you any idea how many attempts it took for me to write this one unsullied sentence without scratching myself?” muttered the scribe, twitching in place. “Why, it’s the best I could do, and I am the best! Behold how shaky my penmanship is—an absolute disgrace, yes I know! Well, I was the only one able to even hold the quill in my trembling fingers! Indeed, it is late in the evening, and the whole city is scratching itself as we speak! All work and trade have stopped, all pleasures, for we are dying from this plague of fleas, my Lord!”

“
Enough! Just let me sign the damn thing, Ostavi!” wailed Lord Dava. “Give it to me! Argh!”

Seizing the parchment from the other’s hands and grabbing a writing implement from the scribe, Lord Dava proceeded to scribble a very shaky X in lieu of his signature. He then passed it to Lord Ostavi, who scribbled another X right below.

“
It is witnessed!” Lord Dava cried. “Now, seal it! Quickly, you idiots, before we expire!”

A leaping and scratching lawyer approached. First he tripped on one end of his long cotton robe then straightened himself and started to tip the jar of wax with a wobbly hand over the parchment that lay on the marble floor.

Time seemed to slow into eternity when an uncontrollable bodily twitch caused an unexpectedly large and thick dollop of wax to come snaking down and land in hot droplets on his bare toes and his sandals. The lawyer opened his mouth to let out a howl, but, masterfully, suppressed it into a grimace of silently bared teeth and crossed eyes, an admirable display of official dignity. At last, with luck and one quick movement, he managed to pour a proper-sized dab of wax in the appropriate location on the parchment.

Not wasting an instant, a second lawyer danced up to him carrying a prominent city seal, and he slapped the seal onto the wax, at the same time rubbing his backside.

After several long itching seconds, the seal was pulled away, and the Agreement was complete.

And yet nothing happened. There was no relief to the itching. In fact, it seemed to have intensified, judging by the beet-red complexions of the two lords, the lawyers, the scribes, and all the rest of the affected.

“
Oh, my . . .” said Annaelit, biting her knuckle in anxiety. “I just don’t know what to do. I was so sure the Trade Agreement would be the key factor here. . . .”

“
No!”
roared Lord Ostavi. “Oh, make it stop, please make it stop! You are a clever girl, Annaelit! Do something!”

“
My Lord . . .” she said. “I am sorry but I just don’t know what to do.”

“
Think!” howled Lord Dava. “You are the one who told the Tale that started all this! And now you have to tell a Tale that ends it!”

“
Yes, because this is the lousiest story I have ever heard!”

“
End it
now,
Teller of Tales!”

And, as they all stared at her, between their spasms of itching, Annaelit cleared her throat and tremulously began to tell the end of a very odd Tale. “Thus it came to pass that the fleas were tormenting the two great lords and—and—oh, I can’t!”

“
What?” roared Lord Ostavi.

“
I cannot tell this Tale . . .” whispered Annaelit, shaking. “Don’t you see,
I
am in it. I cannot tell my own tale! No storyteller can!”

In that moment there was a crackling in the air, as though a thundercloud had broken open in the chamber, and the residual electricity licked the walls with a bluish shadow that stood in contrast with the warm, golden lamplight.

And in the next heartbeat, a
man
stood in the room before them.

He was tall and well built, and yet his face managed to remain shadowed—an unreadable spot.

“
Pokreh! God of Things Left Over!” Annaelit cried.

Yes, it is I. For something is very much left over in this moment of moments, Teller of Tales,
spoke a voice in her mind.

“
What must I do, my Lord? Tell me what I must do to free these people from the agony of the ludicrousness? For it is my fault, and my story! And yet I cannot end it, surely, for I am a player in it. I am in this Tale!”

In that moment, the god laughed. His voice rumbled amid the crackling electricity. “Look at you all,” he said. “Scratching silly flea-ridden mortals, who have brought this upon yourselves, and continue to do so.”

He pointed a finger at Annaelit, saying, “You. Why do you think you cannot end this Tale?”

“
Because I am in it!” she said. “How can I?”

“
How can you not? Who else has the ability to guide and conclude your own Tale but you?” said the god. “And I do not speak merely of any Tale you tell, but of a greater Tale, the one which unfolds around you and engulfs you in the river of time.”

“
I thought—” said Annaelit, “I thought that it was written and navigated by the will of the gods such as yourself.”