Through Darkest Zymurgia!

At last we had returned to Zymurgia.

No doubt there are those in my audience who feared the day would never come; who feel, perhaps, that I have lingered too long in such diverse spots as Lyricum Town, Cuprios, and Seros. Alas, that is the nature of a scientific expedition. One spends months of valuable time in transit, with all of the adventures and annoyances that entails, so that one can spend a pitifully short time in the region of interest. And then one turns around and goes home again. (You can go home again, you know. I've done it dozens of times.)

Were this a scholarly work on the mythogeography of Zymurgia, I confess, the tale of our journey thither would have been contained in one or two cogent paragraphs. It is intended for a more general audience, however, an audience for whom the Dolce Vita of Lyricum Town is nigh as exotic as the faroff lands of fable. Those of my readers who would prefer a drier, more staid work may apply to Dean Nuftison of Glastonbury University; I gather he has a similar preference, which may one day be satisfied.

Before continuing with my narrative, I should like to describe the region in which we found ourselves for the next several weeks. Parnas had indeed preceded us, and though tired and saddle-sore had arranged a warm reception. Several dozen of Parnas' friends and relations were there to greet us, in addition to those who operated the hoist. After we stepped out of the box, which was perhaps more sturdy and well-built than I have implied, we were clasped unto the bosom of the crowd and made exceedingly welcome. The barge lay nearby, and Mukden climbed onto its deck and made a short speech. I couldn't understand him, of course, but it was plain that he was describing the trading voyage, and then introducing each of us by name. I waited eagerly to see how he would manage to say "Thintwhistle", and was a little let down when he didn't.

After that we were escorted down the road to the nearby village, of which I will say more anon. It was nearly full dark; my memories of that evening consist mostly of disjointed images of happy, laughing people bustling down the road in the torchlight. We were bustled down the road with them, and bustled into the village, and finally bustled into a house which had been prepared for us, whereupon the villagers wished us good night. Philpott was eager to talk, but, fatigued from our ordeal and expecting an early morning, the rest of us bustled right into bed. Finding no one to talk to, Philpott bustled about a bit, and then went to bed himself, for which the rest of us were thankful.

Myself, I went to bed feeling that the expedition had finally, really and truly begun. It was not so much that we had finally reached Zymurgia. Rather, it was because of the sleeping arrangements. Nothing is so truly characteristic of life on an expedition as the almost total loss of privacy. When we run out of sherry for our evening toasts, I merely sigh. When the insects become more numerous than the local people, and often of nearly as large a size, I merely check my boots for visitors before putting them on. As each amenity of life fades away, I begin to feel as though an expedition is in the offing. But it is the loss of privacy that is the touchstone. We had been sleeping one to a cabin on the Spaniel, except of course for Hodgins and Bruno; here we were sleeping on cots or hammocks, three or four to a room, and I was lulled into sleep by the familiar, congenial sound of Carbuncle, snoring. As I drifted off, secure in my cot, I knew that after many weeks we had arrived.

Mukden's village rejoices in the name of Tomar, which Philpott assures me is a corruption of an old Zymurgian word for "gateway". It is situated in a valley some two or three miles from the hoist, some ten miles from the upper end of the donkey trail, and some two miles west of the Aram gorge, and is called that presumably because it is the gateway to the lands to the north. The land between Tomar and the edge of the plateau is heavily wooded, providing a break against the winds which scour the cliff's edge; to the south are pastures and cultivated fields.

Tomar is a good-sized place, having something between one and two thousand inhabitants, and so might be called a town. I call it a village, because that is how it felt to me--not a village like Cadbury's in Seros, but like a village in the Anglish countryside of my youth. The streets are narrow, but paved with cobbles. The houses, which are generally one or two stories in height, have thatched roofs and exposed wooden beams; the interstices are filled with woven mats rather than plaster, but otherwise the resemblance was remarkable. The eaves extend far out past the walls to provide relief from the summer sun, and the windows are not glazed; linen curtains are used when modesty requires. The climate is also reminiscent of Angland: warmer the year round--it seldom snows in Tomar--but as damp. Zymurgia is a land of sudden showers, puffy clouds, and occasional dazzling sunshine.

Most of the inhabitants are farmers, who work the nearby fields. The rest are artisans and tradespeople: cobblers, coopers, tailors, bakers, and so forth. All of the trades one would expect to find in a small but vigorous and healthy town were represented, though the goods for sale might look rather odd to Arrastian eyes. We were surprised to discover that there was no brewery in Tomar.

The main street runs in a crescent from the north end of the valley to the south, with buildings and side streets on both sides. The village square is roughly at the midpoint of the crescent; it measures approximately one hundred feet on each side, and is cobbled like the streets. One quarter of the square is dominated by a pool, about fifteen feet across, with its own thatched roof supported by two posts. It is Tomar's main supply of drinking water.

Our house was not on the square, nor on the main street, but on a side street not far from either one. It had two stories, with several sleeping rooms on the second floor and a common room on the first, and was, Mukden assured us, at our disposal for as long as we needed. It was a hostel used by important visitors to Tomar, and none were expected for several months.

But all of this became clear over time. Our first action on rising the next morning was to eat breakfast; the house was provided, we discovered, with a cook, a thin but jolly woman of indeterminate age named Abayla. More than a cook; she was, in fact, the keeper of the hostel, and had a room of her own on the first floor. Philpott tried to speak with her in his halting Zymurgian, which is how we learned she was jolly. Abayla laughed silently, but with her whole body: she threw her head back, a broad smile on her dark face, and shook, wrapping her arms around her ribs as though they would burst if she didn't hold them in. Finally she took pity on him, and indirectly on the rest of us, for we were consumed with embarassment on his behalf--or at least I and Hodgins were. I believe Cadbury and Carbuncle were rather amused, and Philpott could never be troubled to be embarassed on his own behalf.

Abayla took him by the shoulders and guided him to a seat at the long refectory table in the common room; when he tried to speak again, she placed a long, thin finger over his lips as she slipped a platter of food in front of him. We never found out whether Abayla understood anything Philpott was saying, as she never in our entire stay spoke to us; she simply smiled and fed us well and frequently.

Breakfast was a simple affair. There was some kind of porridge with a sweet, nutty flavor, as well as oranges and plums. For drink we had a choice of water or fruit juice. Mukden came and joined us as we were discussing our plans. I was interested to note that he had changed his manner of dress. He had, of course, put aside the fur hat and capelet of his trader's regalia, but he had also put aside the short linen skirt in favor of knee-length linen breeches, a flowing blouse or tunic of the same material, and leather sandals.

"Good morning, my friends," he said. "How do I find you this day? Is the hostel to your liking?"

"It will do very well, Mukden," I replied. "We are grateful to have the use of it."

He beamed at us. "Good," he said. "Good." Then he frowned slightly, and scratched his cheek just under his left eye, and shifted in his seat. "My friends, I have brought you here because my friend Thed asked it of me. Now I must ask a thing of you."

"Certainly," I said, "anything we can do."

"It is difficult to ask this, for guests are not to be questioned, but we have never seen such people as you. The Masters of Tomar have asked to see you today. You need not see them...but if you do not I must bid you return to the Lands Below." Mukden, who I had hitherto thought irrepressible, said these last words slowly, grudgingly, and sadly, as though prepared to see us rise in a huff and storm out of his town and out of his country. Philpott stared at him, eyes wide, Carbuncle and Fox said nothing, and Cadbury and Hodgins just went on eating.

"But of course," I said. "You who have met us and befriended us, you know we mean no harm. But what assurance do your countrymen have? Gladly we will see the Masters of Tomar." Carbuncle nodded, and Philpott began to look eager. Mukden relapsed into his happy, bouyant self.

"Now," I asked, "who are the Masters of Tomar, and when would they like to see us?"

"The Masters are those who are responsible for the well-being of Tomar," Mukden replied. "I have been asked to bring you as soon as may be. Today is a festival day, and there is much to do."

"Is the festival because you have returned from your journey?" asked Philpott, his eyeglasses glinting in the light of a blue morning.

"That is so," Mukden replied, smiling. "After each such journey, we celebrate the dispersal of the waters of Basenis."

At that point Abayla came to clear the table, and we judged it wise to be elsewhere. "Lead on, good Mukden," I said. "Take us to the Masters. Hodgins, Fox, perhaps it would be best if you stayed here for now." As we left the hostel, I whistled for Bruno to join us.

Our first excursion into the daylight streets of Tomar was a memorable one. I have compared Tomar with an Anglish village, and rightly so, but that was not my first impression. My first impression was one of dogs. The street in front of the hostel was full of them. All were small, as Mukden had said, not more than fourteen or sixteen inches in height, with wiry frames. They were all of a type, short-haired, white with black or brown markings, and with long, pointed snouts and pointed ears that stood up straight from their heads.

Every one of them was utterly intent on Bruno's every move. They stood in a ragged halfcircle around the door of the hostel, bristling and not quite snarling. Mukden was clearly taken aback, so I quickly understood that this was no usual assemblage. And indeed it was not: the forty or so dogs present represented nearly the entire canine population of Tomar.

Mukden was at a loss; we could not move from the doorway without stepping into the crowd of dogs. I do not know how long the stalemate would have lasted, as I lost my patience. "We have an appointment," I said. "I do not propose to be held back by a pack of puppies." Commanding Bruno to heel I stepped into the street, pulling Mukden with me, and the dogs perforce gave way. The snarls were more audible now, and as we walked down the street to the town square we remained at the center of a mass of ears, tails, and muddy paws. Bruno, noble dog that he was, ignored his Zymurgian cousins, and paced placidly at my side, acting for all the world as if this were a Sunday promenade on board the Sea-Spaniel.

The square, when we reached it, was crowded with townsfolk preparing for the festivities. Banks of elevated seats were being constructed, and a speaking platform, and rows of trestle tables occupied one full quarter. Mukden pointed out a large building across the square, one of the few stone buildings in Tomar. "The Hall of the Masters," he said. "They await us there."

We made quite an interesting sight, I am sure, six outlandishly clad foreigners with their big black dog proceeding quietly through the square, the calm eye of a storm of furry chaos. The Zymurgian dogs were running circles around us now, barking and snarling. The townspeople stopped what they were doing and watched, but to my surprise none of them attempted to calm the dogs or call them away.

I don't know how long these circumstances would have lasted, or whether the short-haired little fiends would have attended our audience with the Masters of Tomar, for as we approached the center of the square one of the barking horrors gathered its courage and nipped Bruno's tail. In a flash, in a twinkling of an eye, Bruno had turned himself about and sunk his teeth in the scruff of his attacker's neck. He shook the smaller dog, three sharp jerks from side to side, releasing the body on the third pass. The creature flew several yards to land in a motionless heap on the cobbles; its neck was clearly broken.

The other dogs, still barking, had backed away from Bruno; several were sniffing at their fallen comrade, tails between their legs. For his part, Bruno was growling low in his throat, and looking from side to side as if choosing his next victim.

With a start I realized that this could not go on. I said sternly, "Bruno, heel!" Without a backwards glance the noble beast resumed his place at my side, and we continued on our way. The remaining dogs scattered before us.

I looked back as we reached the Hall of the Masters. The dogs had dispersed, except for the lonely form in the middle of the square. The people of Tomar watched us silently as we entered the Hall, and then went back to their chores.