Eight 2: Chapter 9

When I was a kid—it must’ve been the fourth grade, because the assignment was for Mrs. Mcgillicuddy—I had to write a report on the courthouse in downtown Portland. Mi abuela offered to take me, which had surprised everyone in the family—until she showed them a year-old letter informing her that she needed to review some paperwork for her green card.

That wasn’t a fun day. The two of us went from office to office, and I had to translate the frustrated requests of the civil servants into Spanish, and the iron-willed demands of my grandmother into English. I remembered a lot of looming adults, and I got an A+ on the paper. Mrs. Mcgillicuddy wrote that it was a ‘unique perspective’ and that next time ‘your grandmother shouldn’t wait a year to respond to a government letter.’

No kidding, Sherlock. If the family had had the courage to yell at my grandmother for waiting so long, they would’ve.

Anyway, after the adventure at the courthouse, my grandmother and I sat on the steps surrounding Pioneer Square, and together we watched the people walk past. She must’ve felt bad about what had happened, because she bought me an ice cream cone.

“Too many people,” she said.

“It’s not as many as Mexico City,” I said.

She frowned. “Listen first, then talk. The people are fewer, but there are more that are haunted. Possessed.”

“There are ghosts?” I asked.

“There are always spirits,” she said, her dark eyes flashing. She was a small, thin woman, but steel ran through her spine and limbs. When she gestured to point at someone walking past, I thought the fabric of the world would tear like a cheap t-shirt. “There, that man with the silly haircut. The one dressed all in black. He is possessed. And that young woman; the yellow is a terrible color for her, but it is her mother’s favorite. The mother’s ghost drives her to wear it.” My grandmother pursed her lips in distaste. “There are too many disrespectful dead here, and not enough people of power to put them to rest.”

The cone dribbled cream onto my hand, unnoticed. “Are spirits bad?”

“Of course not. There are the respectful dead, as well as the spirits of the animals, the earth, and the sky. Some are helpful, and many are dangerous. That is why you must always be careful, Oliver. There are monsters hidden in the corners of the world.” She sniffed. “Your father refuses to let me teach you these things. He was always a foolish boy.”

“Maybe we should go home,” I said, the ice cream cone forgotten.

“No,” she said with a tight shake of her head. “We will stay here, and I will point out the possessed. Look at them and see if you can guess how I know. After that, we will play a game. You are fond of games, yes? Each person that passes, you will tell me if they are possessed or not.”

“Will I get points for the ones I get right?”

“Points? Like in the football? Yes, of course.”

“And what will I get for the points? What will I win?”

“Wisdom,” she said. “Truth. Protection. All the things that matter. Your abuelito teaches you how to be in the woods. I… I will teach you how to be in the world, the real world hiding under this fake one we see around us.” My grandmother nodded to herself. “Yes, I like this game. We will come here when I am not working and you are not at school, and we will play. It will be a secret between us.”

“I don’t know, abuelita. Your secrets are scary.”

“It is a scary world, Oliver, and if we don’t play, then we become like these ignorant people—easy prey to the hungry ghosts of the dead.”

Eventually, my grandmother’s clients realized they could visit her at Pioneer Square. They’d patiently sit lined up along the steps, waiting for their turn to consult her, and during the lulls in her business we’d play the game.

I learned to pay attention to the chills, the unease, the hair rising at the back of my neck, the watery feeling in my belly, and the sense of static in my eyes. When I had my first dream of a dead relative, my grandmother celebrated by making pineapple tamales and loading me down with protective charms.

I stopped listening to her wisdom, though, when I hit middle school. I… well, I was an idiot hungry for my father’s attention, so I decided to dismiss my grandmother like he had. I wrote off the feelings and perceptions as the byproducts of an overactive imagination. The dreams were just dreams, and her teachings were superstition and nothing more.

If she was disappointed, my grandmother never showed it. She went right on practicing her craft. Nothing I nor anyone else did ever swayed her from her path.

It wasn’t until later, much later, that I tried to assemble what I’d learned from her into something useful. She was gone by then, and I missed her, even as strict and uncompromising as she’d been.

Once again, dawn found me at the Hunter’s Lodge. I hadn’t slept well after dreaming of Bindeise, but I was impatient to start my day.

A hunter named Borba—a man with talents for being Hard Working and Lean—trained with Inneioleia while I waited. He had a long face, long limbs, and a scar ran that vertically across his left eye. There looked to be a wooden marble in the socket. Otherwise, he was a rather plain man in his thirties, and his technique was as plain as he was. His strikes didn’t nearly have the snap and bite of the others I’d seen.

Inneioleia focused his attacks so that they came from Borba’s blind side. When the lodge master saw me, though, he brought me into the training. I was handed a blunted spear and asked to attack whenever I saw an opening. Now that I was closer, I could see the remnants of scars along Borba’s neck, running under his jacket.

Borba didn’t seem to like me on his left, and flinched when he caught sight of my spear flickering toward him. Inneioleia took advantage of the lapse and slammed the butt of his spear into his chest.

“Focus!”

Borba nodded, his lips pressed tight. “Yes, master.”

Inneioleia attacked again, drawing his attention, but Borba kept turning his head to glance my way, even when I was just waiting for an opportunity.

Inneioleia growled. “I said focus.”

Borba responded with a tight, “Yes.”

I thrust my spear and hit Borba in the side. His return swing was late, and I had plenty of time to scramble out of the way.

“Better,” Inneioleia said. “The turn was stiff, but you didn’t flinch. Eight, keep your weight on your toes.”

What? I thought back to my response to Borba’s counter. Oh, yeah, okay, I was on my heels in my hurry to avoid it.

“Steady strikes now, Eight. For every three breaths, thrust.”

“Yes, master.”

Borba’s training session lasted until about eight in the morning. By the time we were done, we were both panting and our jackets had grown chilly from the soaked-through sweat. I sat on the ground resting, while Borba received some last-minute pointers. Then he bowed to the lodge master, and surprisingly to me, before he left. He still had a full day’s worth of work to do.

“What happened to him?” I asked.

“A wolf pack,” Inneioleia said. “Their territory is to the south, but they sometimes range into our hunting areas. They’d separated Borba from his team, but he fought them off long enough to be rescued.”

My eyebrows rose in surprise. I couldn’t imagine fighting a pack of wolves on my own. Not yet, anyway.

“His spear is ordinary, but he has a strong will. It is necessary for being a hunter. One cannot enter the woods lightly.”

“But his skill…” My words trailed off, not wanting to disparage Borba. Clearly, he was well-practiced, a professional spearman, but there was a difference between him and Mumu, Haol, and even Tegen.

Inneioleia laughed. “Not everyone is talented, Little Pot. Some must strive harder than others along their path. Those from whom you are learning are the best hunters of our lodge. Only they can help you polish your potential. Speaking of which… come, we are not finished. You are not one who can criticize others—your spear is pathetic, and needs much more practice.”

It took a minute for him to explain the Diaksh words I didn’t know. Then, with his grin and my scowl, we picked up our spears again.

Flip me over, mama, I’m done. Spent, wiped, and completely tapped. Mana: zero. Qi: zero. I didn’t have a measure for stamina in my Status, but if I did, I knew it’d read zero too.

Inneioleia was a demon, a terror of training. He put me through the wringer for two more hours before leaving me a puddle of sweat and jellied muscles.

The hunters visiting the lodge looked on with sympathy… and likely relief that it wasn’t them lying on the ground feeling the world spin. Each one murmured encouragement as they walked past to talk with the lodge master.

“Be strong.”

“Keep fighting.”

“Don’t die.”

That last one felt particularly apt.

Eventually, I recovered enough to drag myself inside to sit near Inneioleia’s desk. He’d just finished dealing with a villager’s request for deer hides.

“I have questions,” I said.

“Of course you do,” Inneioleia said, turning around on his cushion.

“It’s about contributions to the lodge.” I took a moment to catch my breath. “If I brought in a chest of coins, would that count?”

“Yes, since the money would be used to strengthen the lodge and the village.”

“How much would it cost for Spiral Pierce?”

Inneioleia sighed. “Let us be clear: the spells are not for sale. They are a reward for a hunter’s contributions. Since that is the case, it depends on the village’s needs.”

“Is there a need for money?” I asked.

“Unfortunately, yes, a great need. We lost two strong hunters this last winter, so we will be forced to hire soldiers and mercenaries to make up the difference during the next. The village’s defense is not something we can leave to chance.”

“So, the amount—”

“The amount would be ten eltaak.”

“Per spell?”

“Yes,” Inneioleia said, starting to frown.

He clearly didn’t like being forced to attach a price to the spells, but I needed the information for my planning.

“What about solving Bindeise’s murder? Would that count as a contribution?”

“Only in as much as it affects the village’s wellbeing,” Inneioleia said.

“And Grunthen,” I said. “What if I found out what happened to him?”

“That would be a contribution to the lodge, and something I would reward.” Inneioleia patted me on the shoulder. “I admire your ambition, Little Pot—I can see what you plan to do—but I caution you to learn the spells slowly. Master one before you learn the next. It’s better to have one or two sharp arrows than a quiver full of blunt ones.”

Normally, that would be good advice, but I had an advantage in the uekisheile. I was sure that we could at least double the speed at which I learned the qi spells.

“Another question—”

Inneioleia snorted.

“Is there Spirit Magic available through the lodge?”

The question caught Inneioleia by surprise, but he quickly recovered and gazed at me thoughtfully. “An interesting idea. You wish to consult Bindeise’s ghost about his murder? Unfortunately, that will not work for two reasons. The first is practical—we do not have Spirit Magic. It is the domain of the Philosopher’s Lodge. The second reason is metaphysical. Do you know that word? It is hard to describe.”

The two of us fumbled through the translation, and it took a while to figure out the word for ‘metaphysical’ in particular.

Eventually, Inneioleia continued. “It is an interesting exercise talking to you, Little Pot. It makes me question the words I take for granted. But let us continue; the second reason you cannot consult Bindeise’s ghost is that ghosts cannot speak. It is Tenna’s Gift.”

“As in the god Tenna?” I asked.

“Yes, that is right. Tenna’s Gift is a ghost’s curse, as the saying goes. It is his protection to limit their influence. There was a time in the early days of the world when the dark spirits goaded people and animals to commit acts of great evil. This infuriated Tenna, and he created a wall between the living and the dead, such that the one could no longer tempt the other.”

My heart sank. Yes, I was planning to consult Bindeise’s ghost, but more importantly, I also hoped to one day be able to talk to Helen and my grandparents. I wanted to share my stories—to tell them about the kids and Ikfael, about the uekisheile and this world—and to hear their stories in return. It wasn’t that I wanted to tempt them into becoming ghosts, but a little bit of contact should be okay. Right? Ah, I’m disappointed, aren’t I? I was hoping to talk to them more than I realized.

“Do not be sad, Little Pot. It was a clever idea, but there are other ways to make contributions to the lodge. The days ahead are many and bountiful.”

I showed up at Biheila’s door bedraggled and worn out from training at the Hunter’s Lodge. The kids cried out in alarm and pulled me inside, then helped me wash and change clothes. They even fed me, since I quite literally couldn’t lift my arms above my shoulders. The last four inches to my mouth were just impossible.

They propped me up against the garden wall afterward, and chatted as they worked. I listened with half an ear as my mind roved over the morning’s events. When I realized my hands were clenched into fists, I forced the tension out with a big, deep breath.

What couldn’t be helped, couldn’t be helped. If I wouldn’t be able to talk to Helen and my grandparents, then that was the way of things.

In an effort to stop moping, I turned my thoughts to what I’d learned so far from the Hunter’s Lodge. I wasn’t good for anything else besides contemplation, so I sat in the sun for the rest of the morning, resting and thinking. I must’ve looked comfortable among the vegetables and herbs, because the kids and Biheila joined me outside for lunch.

The widow had traded with a neighbor for half a salmon, which she’d grilled and served with a parsley-like green sauce. The fish was accompanied by something like broccolini and a corn porridge.

Their stories steadily drew me in, and by the time I’d finished eating, my spirits had mostly been restored. The kids must’ve noticed, because they looked pleased with themselves. Billisha patted me on the head and told me to work hard but not to despair. The skills would come with practice.

The kids snickered when I stood up to stretch and walk around. My back was hunched, and my feeble steps made me look like a doddering old man. The children danced in a circle and made up a song just for me:

Old man Eight

Has a funny gait.

Watch him step left.

Watch him step right.

When is he going to fall?

Marches around the garden tall,

When will we watch him crawl?

Old man Eight

Has a funny gait.

The rascals, I’d get mad at them if only I’d stop smiling.

I waved off the ladybug that had landed on my cheek and righted myself back into a sitting position. Confused, I noticed that the sun had jumped a couple of hours ahead. I must’ve fallen asleep while meditating.

My muscles were terribly sore, but the pain was worth it. There was a lovely collection of skill notifications waiting for me:

With a groan, I levered myself up and into the longhouse, but it was empty of both children and widows. I, however, found a bowl of ripe strawberries in cream waiting for me. So sweet and delicious! I felt my body sucking in the sugar and fat.

Still groggy from my nap, it actually took a while to register that I’d gotten a new skill: Qi Body Arts. That perked me up, and I quickly checked the tooltip.

The memories underlying the skill were mostly from the previous day, exploring the Dog’s Agility spell, but they were supplemented by the knowledge I’d gained from the Qi Body skill.

That makes sense, I thought. The two are intimately connected, after all. Still, this is good progress. The decision to come to Voorhei has been paying off nicely. And I might be able to qualify for more spells if I can find a way to identify Bindeise’s killer.

I had about five hours left until sundown and considered hiking out to Fort Sugar Shack to look for clues. On the other hand, I didn’t trust myself to fight off any of the forest’s creatures in my current condition. Tomorrow then, assuming the lodge master doesn’t turn me into jelly again.

I rooted around in my memories for ways to approach this self-assigned quest to find Bindeise and Grunthen’s murderer. Well, Dwilla wasn’t convinced the other body belonged to Grunthen, but nothing else made sense given what I knew.

In my previous life, I preferred science fiction and fantasy, but I’d seen my fair share of British crime dramas. They were a favorite of Helen—so much so that she had a cardboard cutout of Diana Rigg from Mystery! in her office.

Motive, means, and opportunity—those were the three things I needed to determine to find the murderer. For now, motive and opportunity were out of reach, but means was a different story.

Means meant a knife and the skill to use it, as well as a high-enough Stealth skill to stab two people in the back, one of which may have been a trained hunter. It was either that, or the victims had known the murderer and hadn’t been afraid to turn their backs to them. The murderer also needed access to cleansing fire.

Who else besides a hunter carried it? Who else besides a hunter trained their Stealth skills? And if they hadn’t used Stealth, who was known well enough by Bindeise and Grunthen for the two men to let down their guard around them?

I sighed, thinking about the answers to those questions. I’d enjoyed the camaraderie between the brothers and sisters of the Hunter’s Lodge. Billisha had been right—the lodge was like a second family. It was sad to think that one of them may be a murderer.