Giliad

The hammock, named by Giliad – Senpai, swung indolently. Giliad and Senpai were close. In fact, so close that the mayor had imposed crazy rules regarding their relationship. Giliad and Senpai weren’t to spend more than a wheel’s turn a day. Giliad chewed a white grape wondering about the next chastisement for breaking the injunction. The morning has begun two maybe three wheel’s turns ago. Since then, Giliad hasn’t moved from the hammock. Oh yes, Cape Towners have seen him alright, and surely at least half of them have delivered information to the mayor. He couldn’t and didn’t blame them. These folks were simple people, accustomed to hard work with a little prospect at the end of a day. Giliad’s own prospects weren’t too interesting either, but he wanted them to remain as such.

The grape had a sour aftertaste despised by the locals, making it dirty cheap food. This way he could avoid days-worth of work. People should only get a job when they needed it, once the need was gone, so should the job. He used a rope, attached to the far side, to swing the hammock. Cape Town offered very little in terms of wind. Most of the time the air was so humid that drying clothes outside made little sense. Giliad was at peace with the weather, no longer angered by the absence of scorching heat present in the far northeast, or as the Imperial terminology dictated – the Fourth Region. The land of endless sands. He wasn’t fond of the memories of this period in his life, but he missed the fervor of the Sun, relentless and purifying heat. Here the weather could drive a man crazy, but as he’d said, he’s made a peace with it. The key was … to move as little as possible. And so, the troubles with the mayor have started. She was a mean, old, ill-tempered hag, which knew how to foul blood.

The day peaked and Giliad found himself edging into a sleep. Sudden shouts brought him around and he cursed. It was going to be a good dream. The commotion on the main road bustled with activity and Giliad wished for a chance to move his hut farther away. This, unfortunately, was impossible. His little hut already bordered the high wooden wall, built to keep the nasty things outside. Normally, he would ignore the warnings and set off into the jungle, maybe build a treehouse or whatnot. But the puny wall had shaken too many times for his comfort. The nasty things indeed. Best to leave them alone.

Near Giliad’s hut stood the inn. Its proximity made Giliad uneasy. Not that it has seen many visitors, most travelers had chosen a shelter house – a free roof – instead of paying for comfort and warmth. Giliad didn’t blame them, he’d do the same. The inn’s owner Zuma was a good man, a coin-pincher and nosy bastard, but a better man than most. The inn itself wasn’t anything special. A two-story featureless building that bore no resemblance to the inns found in larger cities. Giliad was aware of some argument between Zuma and the mayor about the outlook of the inn, but no details had been shared with him, which was fine because he preferred to know less.

The noise from the main road began escalating and intensifying. A brief thought flapped in Giliad’s mind – should he check on what was happening? He let the idea to flutter away. His presence would be the last thing needed there. Cape Towners respected … or at least tolerated him, but not much friendship has been forged between Giliad and the rest. There were exceptions: doctor Charcot, Sul-Tizoca, and Zuma. He was content with this, too. Fewer friends meant fewer problems. He considered this particular notion. Deep within him were things he was not ready to face. So, he reassured himself – the notion held. He closed his eyes again, trying to filter out the sounds from the town and leave out the noises of the jungle beyond the wall. Neither pleasant. On one side, the angered stupid mob, on another, a cacophony of monkeys’ voices and poorly skilled birds attempting at singing. He groaned, contemplating his unfortunate position. His stomach grumbled, giving him a clear signal of an incoming hunger. Now, this is bad. If I get hungry, I’ll have to find something to eat and that means … I’ll need to leave Senpai alone. This is bad. In his mind, the day couldn’t get any worse. A surprise awaited him.

Light steps, too soft to penetrate the racket, approached the gently swinging hammock. A boy of nondescript features stopped by the hammock and reached with his right hand to tap Giliad’s shoulder. Giliad started, then without looking back said. “Go away.”

“Your presence is required,” the boy said in a very formal way. Not fitting a child.

Giliad whirled about, which wasn’t the best idea. He landed on the hard ground. With a scowl, he rose and reiterated his desire to remain alone.

“My mother wants to see you now.”

“Tell her, you couldn’t find me, Pipil,” Giliad said dismissively, he had other pressing matters on his mind. Food. I need food.

“I won’t lie to my mother nor I’ll return without you. And my name is Pipil-tak.”

Giliad grimaced, seeing that the persistent imp didn’t move. He couldn’t think when hungry and meeting with the mayor would require a lot of thinking, of course. This woman … wait, get back, this old hag is worse than a leech. The mayor made your blood boil before she sucked it out of you. Perhaps, poisoning the flesh that remained. In Giliad’s eyes, Pipil was a pipsqueak. Short, skinny, and wearing a stupid mop on his head, the boy was difficult to like, even if one was inclined to chase such a hideous relationship.

“Alright. I’ll visit her later. I’m busy now. Go away.”

Pipil didn’t leave.

“My mother expected such a blunt excuse. But she said, she has no time to argue with an idiot – her words – so she agreed to pay for the visit,” he said with self-importance, but Giliad only sighed. It was a poor attempt to play on his nerves, and he knew the imp well enough to expect this from him. Nonetheless, being paid for a short visit sounded too good to ignore. In fact, the hunger commanded him now, and he hasn’t had a coin on him to buy meat. Hunting was out of the question. It involved too much effort. Plus, some animals were mean.

“I bet she didn’t tell you how much?” Giliad asked as they left his hut behind.

Pipil-tak narrowed his eyes. “Why is it always about coins with you?”

Giliad stumbled, opened his mouth to say something, then started laughing instead. He finally managed to utter a couple of words. “Ask your mother, she is an expert.”

Pipil-tak turned his way, no longer composed. The boy’s eyes blazed with indignation. Giliad pressed ahead, paying little heed to the effect of his words. Truth was truth, why would he care if it hurt others to see the real state of things? Giliad wasn’t a philosopher to consider such matters. When he made to the main road where in raised voices the towners discussed something important. Giliad looked back and found the pipsqueak lagging. It didn’t matter, Giliad knew the way, though it irritated him that the boy didn’t reveal how much his mother would pay. The old hag was known to be stingy. The main road was filled with pockets of packed red dirt. Giliad quickened his step toward the mayor’s mansion. Noticing him, some towners lowered their voices. He nodded to them, ignoring their hostile emotions, which angered them to no end. Even after ten years here, many of Cape Towners have treated him with suspicion and preferred to keep their distance. Giliad couldn’t blame them for this. He’d made no efforts to bridge the gap after moving to the town. Glares flooded with mistrust followed him all the way up to the stone bridge, where the mayor’s personal guards camped. The wooden wall kept animals and bandits outside the town. The mob on the other hand has been kept on its toes by the mayor’s guards. They wore light, leather vests with strapped short swords to their hips. In comparison to other towns and villages in this jungle, the mayor’s personal guard was well-armed. Guards eyed Giliad with cold stares and he grinned seeing their soft, unblemished flesh. They could have shiny swords and good armors, but none of them have seen a real danger. Something he couldn’t say about himself. Nonetheless, Giliad passed the bridge without exchanging a word. He was a recognizable man – standing seven feet tall – muscled and dangerously lean. His forearms were covered with tattoos – names that made no sense to people of Cape Town. Even the strongest bullies among the guards stepped lightly around him. Still, his appearance didn’t avail him much when it came to stopping people from complaining to the mayor behind his back. Maybe the fault lay in the rumor that the old hag didn’t fear him? So, Cape Towners took their chances telling her how bad he was.

The area beyond the stone bridge seemed out of place. There were only two buildings there – the mayor’s mansion and doctor Charcot’s strange house with garden – standing a hundred paces apart. Another feature of this place, which was virtually absent in the rest of Cape Town was verdure. There were places even in this region where people believed that the curse of the forest was a myth. Well, it wasn’t. The forest oppressed every inch of the ground unless there was the infamous red dirt. Most villages and towns Giliad had visited, made sure to eradicated plants at first sight. Now, a similar process has been followed in Cape Town, save for this area where the mayor and doctor decided to keep some vegetation. Why? Giliad had no idea. Sometimes he has wondered about these plants and how much devotion doctor and his wretched assistant showed to them, though he wasn’t truly interested in explanations.

Giliad approached the spot where the road forked, he took the left toward the mayor’s mansion. Fifty paces later, the large two-story building loomed before him. It showed the huge wealth gap between the mayor and the rest of the towners. Having a mansion constructed out of rare timber! Yes, that was a display of opulence.

A lone, burly man stood, barring the main entrance. In Giliad’s estimation, Yamil was worth a dozen guards. Though he only reached to Giliad’s chin, his shoulders were wider. Yamil was the head of the personal guards. Skin not covered by armor was either scarred or tattooed. If common folks had enough courage to go behind Giliad’s back, they wouldn’t try the same with this man.

“Where is Pipil-tak?” Yamil asked.

“I lost him around the inn. Insolent brat.”

The head of guards’ scarred lips curled gently into a smile. He nodded and admitted Giliad inside. Like him, Yamil belonged to foreigners in this town.

Giliad opened the double door and entered a huge hall. This room alone was larger than Giliad’s hut. Walls decorated with stuffed snakes looked kind of nice. An old man lolling on a chair perked up, his eyes widened seeing Giliad, then recognition filled that half-blind gaze and he sneered.

“Don’t do that,” Giliad said. “It makes you look old.”

The old man grimaced some more, then attempted to stand up, but failed.

“If she is in her office then I know the way.”

“I don’t trust you to walk within this house without someone keeping an eye on you, forernero,” The geezer wheezed. “Where are the guards?”

Giliad didn’t answer. There was a high chance the old man would forget him anyway. So, what was the point?

At the end of the hall was a staircase that led to the office upstairs. As Giliad passed the geezer, he heard grunts and curses, but the pursuit was out of the question. His amusement didn’t last long as his stomach rumbled and he second-guessed his decision to come to the meeting. Maybe she has something to eat in the office? She always has. She likes food as much as coins. By the time he reached the last step, Giliad could hear the mayor yelling something at someone. That is a very promising start, he thought as his right hand pushed the door inward.

He hadn’t had expectations about what he’d find and still he ended up surprised. That woman has never disappointed.

Giliad found the entire town council sheepishly listening to the mayor’s tirade.

Doctor Charcot wearing his usual attire – light, leather vest, shorts, and sandals. The old man stood the closest to the mayor and Giliad assumed that he was the focus of Ling’s wrath. Five steps behind the doctor sat Zuma in a stained linen apron. A stupid pointed mustache twitched in the slight smile at the sight of Giliad. Farthest away from the mayor was the hunter Sul-Tizoca, wearing shorts held by two suspenders. These people had no taste in fashion. The man squinted at him, then straightened his head and looked away. Now, that is one moody bastard. Giliad ignored the thick atmosphere and strode into the middle of the room. Ling’s head snapped his way and her mouth opened.

But Giliad was faster. “How much?”

This got everyone’s attention. Even grumpy Sul turned about. The mayor blinked rapidly. She was a hideous woman, short, gaunt, wearing short unhealthy-looking hair and her face was a mask of an unending fury.

“How much what?”

“How much you’ll pay me for this meeting. Pip said—”

“Are you insane?” she asked, seething with a barely contained rage. Or maybe not so much contained, anymore … never mind that. Giliad shrugged and smiled at the doctor who squirmed under their combined attention.

“I have no business being here, mayor. Whatever do you need from me, my answer is no.”

“Tenoch-Ling. Please let us focus on the subject…” the doctor said, and though his voice almost pleaded, his eyes filled with hardness, fixed on Giliad. He ignored the doctor’s sudden firmness. And cast his look about in search of something to eat. There were fruits in a bowl laying on the table at the back of the office. Giliad’s stomach rumbled and he made a step toward the table. Oblivious to Sul’s flinch and Ling’s angry scowl, he approached the table and grabbed a red, ball-shaped fruit. He didn’t know it and that meant it must have been expensive. Didn’t it fit? The mayor liked expensive stuff… The silence was unbearable, he turned about to face the cauldron of rage, which was held in place only by the doctor’s effort.

“The council must speak with you,” the doctor said. The mayor returned to her seat and pulled a flask from a hidden compartment and took a long gulp, emptying half of the bottle. No one commented on it. All eyes were on Giliad. What did I do this time?

“Speak then, old man.”

The doctor squinted at him as if to measure some unnamed quality. Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke. “Black smoke was witnessed. Southern west, which means Yucca is burning…” He stopped. Did they expect him to be afraid? Or curious? Or shocked? None of these appeared on Giliad’s face. He just stood there watching the old man trying to say something with a little success. Instead, Giliad took a bite and asked him to continue.

“Giliad, the smoke means bandits. There is a high probability they might come here next,” Zuma spoke in the doctor’s stead.

Giliad turned to the innkeeper and took a second bite. “So what?” He asked with his mouth full. “Do you expect me to join this puny personal guard of yours? No chance.” He was careless, sometimes uncaring, but not stupid. Something was up, only he couldn’t get what, like a jest, he was yet about to comprehend. A sudden weight latched to his shoulders and pulled him down. Once more, he glanced at his friends – excluding the mayor of course – and found something new in their eyes. Especially in Sul-Tizoca’s face. There were raw emotions, poorly hidden. Or not hidden at all, only that Giliad had never read people well. So, what have I done that endangered … or even killed our friendship? Immediately, another thought followed… Why should I even care? It may be best for everyone.

“Speak up and be done with it,” Giliad said, the fruit began tasting vile and he lost appetite.

“That is the point. We don’t want you anywhere near the fighting,” the mayor said.

“Best if you leave the town,” the hunter added, his words cutting like razor-sharp leaves of a royalknife tree. “For good.”

The doctor glared at the hunter but didn’t utter a word. Zuma’s scowled. Only the mayor stared at Giliad without flinching. Did he want to leave? He’s spent ten years in this town, living a quiet, uncaring life. People got used to him, as one gets used to a stray dog. Giliad has been fine with such accommodation. Cape Towners could be a pain from time to time, but beyond complaining to the mayor nothing serious had ever been done to him. And now what? Should he just leave everything behind … he didn’t like the word, but he knew it to be true, he felt an attachment to this place. My last sanctuary in this world.

His eyes hardened.

“No.”

The mayor swallowed the shock with surprising quickness.

“No, what?”

“No. I’ll not leave Cape Town. I like it here.”

The mayor chewed on the answer, and for the first time, Giliad’s skin tingled with anxiety. He spied the trash bin and threw the uneaten fruit away. Still, there were undercurrents here. They didn’t tell him the reason.

“Why am I here? I don’t care about Yucca or stray bandits nor…” His jaws clenched together, and he fell silent. Was he really about to say this … that he didn’t care about Cape Town either?

“You were called in because you betrayed us,” the hunter said, his face unyielding mask, his right hand on the pommel of a hunting knife. “And we were calling you a friend.”

“Sul-Tizoca doesn’t—” Doctor started.

“I do,” the hunter cut in. “I trusted you. People here trusted you! The mayor tolerated your ungrateful behavior. Everyone … everyone believed you were one of us … but you—”

“Enough of this, Sul-Tizoca. These words are uncalled for. You are his friend…” the doctor spoke with a strain in his voice that seemed to fail him.

“Let him finish, old man.” Giliad’s own voice lost traces of ever-present amusement. This made everyone flinch.

Some of Sul’s confidence evaporated, he hesitated, then turned away, once more seeking answers beyond the window.

“I have no idea what betrayal he speaks…” It hit him with so much force then that he lost his voice.

“I think you know, now,” the mayor said. “Can you see the extent of the risk involved? Can you comprehend what would happen to this town if your secret came out?” She stood up and walked over to stop two paces from him. “I can’t accept the risk, I’m responsible for the lives of the villagers, Giliad.”

Never had Giliad heard this tone from the mayor’s mouth. Not pleading, yet the rage, contempt, virulence … all these were absent. And this made him uneasy. He knew how to deal with her anger and whatnot. But this? Was she offering him mercy or was she expecting mercy from him? He understood the reason. He saw it now. Why then it was so difficult to accept it and move on? Haven’t I promised myself to never repeat old mistakes, errors of youth? Though he wasn’t old, barely three decades, the stretch of past time in his life felt like centuries.

“I’ll make sure you’ll get enough coins so you can settle somewhere else and find a job,” Ling assured with uncommon for her generosity.

“Wait, Tenoch-Ling. This isn’t the time,” the doctor said,

The mayor spun to him, her mild mask melted, and she warned him. “You’ll remain silent from now on, doctor.” Then her gaze jumped to the hunter. “Charcot is right, Sul-Tizoca. Giliad must remain with us for some time.”

“Mayor!”

“Enough,” Ling said angrily and her gaze returned to Giliad. “From now on, you’ll follow my rules, or I’ll inform the Imperials about you myself. Is that understood?”

Now, that was better. Finally, she sounded normal. Giliad caught a glimpse of gleam in Zuma’s eye. Did the innkeeper quietly smile? Perhaps.

“Is that understood?” she repeated her question.

“I follow no rules. You should know better than that if you know who I am,” Giliad said and left before the shock on their faces settled down and they could react to his words.