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The god they called Rohtua
Why can’t my characters treat me with free beer after all I’ve done them?
Some fantasy author
Day one
A man called Peasant was lying on a queen-sized feather bed listening to sounds of huge palm-leaves slapping into windows and bananas hammering onto the roof above and rolling the dry watercourses down into huge pinned baskets that were leaned to walls. Everything in Village was happening according to Rohtua’s will, everything heeded and obeyed – and so did Peasant as he rose and stretched out feeling a tremendous change about: he was now closely observed by Heavens. Being unaware what could such a thing mean, Peasant simply reached up for his brand new scarlet trousers that were hanging near the bed, and started his usual morning prayer while dragging them on.
“O Rohtua the mighty, the Creator of Village,” Peasant mumbled as he was poking his foot into a trouser-leg, “the Knower of all our thoughts and the Sender of some, the Maker and Re-maker of all the world to its very end, the Giver of these wonderful scarlet trousers to me, though foolish, stupid and un-e-du-ca-ted Peasant I am – hurray! Rohtua! praise thee!”
He looked into a mirror and perceived a battle-hardened face crossed by half-healed scars and topped with aggressively shaped eyebrows over an aquiline nose. This man could walk to the end of the world and massacre a dozen of ugly fanged Orcs by a stool-leg; yet to be completely sure, generous Rohtua has also gifted Peasant a hempen shirt (whatever that meant), a bluish amulet hanging on a shining chain and – as the finishing stroke – with iron-shod boots. Peasant couldn’t remember wearing so many things on. He couldn’t also imagine how has the mirror appeared, and he couldn’t guess why is he looking into it examining every detail in his appearance and almost naming it out loud. It was an utter mystery about him noticing the iron on base of his boots, and how could they act as a finishing stroke when it was only Peasant’s cheek and a tiny piece of ear that were reflected in the mirror… but anyway, such was Rohtua’s will and thus it has been done.
“Here I go!” Peasant announced, and an oaken door screeched open before him and bright beams of light mixed with tunes of elven harps and pipes of Halflings filled the room. At once he felt magical temptation to go and act and to walk far, far away and to become a hero. He breathed deep and went forth out into Village, shouldering away Commoners and hearing their endless small-talks, eyeing the Alchemist’s house nearby and a man called Fool who was sitting under a palm-tree with his weirdly twisted leg and a dictionary in his grasp. But suddenly – for Rohtua perceived inconvenience in someone’s mind – Peasant utterly wished to bring up thoughts of Village, its inhabitants and of the vast surrounding world. He didn’t want to, since he wasn’t seeing a worthy reason – but alas! it was quite pointless to resist the godly will.
It seemed that the world was flat – even Rohtua wasn’t totally and completely sure, – and Peasant lived in its very center. To the North, hollow tundra was stretching, and barbarians wielding a two-handed battle axe in one hand and holding a barrel of beer in another, were walking it. To the West, endlessly warring kingdoms and empires bumped into horizon and honorable North-Westerners were marching the barren lands against the gluttonous South-Westerners. To the East, elven woods were incomprehensibly whispering in the tongue of elven woods and hordes of pale-faced vampires were plotting bloody wood-massacres. Finally, to the South a shoreless ocean was singing its watery song; but even though the waves were almost licking Village’s palisade, no villager has ever seen them. The world was stretching mostly a hundred Imperial myles to each direction; then everything fell into limbo, “that is, an infinite hollow empty void, where there is totally nothing” Peasant thought by Rohtua’s will.
The whole world served a single noble purpose, for it was to be walked by the greatest fighter/mage/thief/paladin ever, Incarnation of Rohtua himself. The hero was known for being an inhumanly sharp spotter of hidden evils, a merciless jester of all false pride and arrogance, a purger and smiter of everything that could move and harm, a master seducer of fair insecure maids and a collector of artifact swords. Obviously, Incarnation would visit Village, so he was eagerly awaited by nearly everyone. The only person who didn’t look forward to Descention – for thus it was called – was Peasant, sure I don’t, he thought to himself.
The habitants of Village were neither numerous nor sparse, however, the exact number was unknown even to Rohtua, since counting Commoners was quite a folly. Everyone had a sophisticated name that was occasionally changed by divine powers, so Peasant, for instance, couldn’t come up even with the real name of Elder’s Daughter. Being reasonable, he clearly understood that no one would remember his name as well; all the more it consisted of nearly twenty letters, a dash and even an apostrophe somewhere in between.
There were two great palm-trees stoking up in the middle of Village, and bananas grew on them all the year round. Thanks to that, nobody had to do any work, which was wonderful beyond any doubt. A ring a stone and wooden houses encircled the central square, and those were the living place for Commoners and normal villagers that were lucky to possess a name. The houses of Elder and Alchemist clearly stood out and were even marked on the cracked map-board at Village’s entrance; it was also rumored that Rohtua planned to erect a smithy and Ye Olde Magick Shoppe when the time of Descention comes nigh.
Countless Commoners wearing bright pink and green vests were standing inside and outside alike, occasionally walking in some random direction and endlessly talking to each other. Some profit could indeed be found in listening to such talks, but speaking back was a nonsense that could never be done by any decent man. Even Fool that was now sitting under a palm-tree nibbling at a yellowish banana would never talk to Commoner… unless the latter would be fool enough to ask Fool why would he sit in such strange manner with his leg twisted. Peasant shivered at the thought. Arguing with Fool would give the creeps even to the bravest man, since Fool was the favorite of Rothua’s and had a right to spit on anything.
Elder, on the other hand, every Sunday gathered the entire Village’s population at the central square and was praising Rohtua until everyone’s been bored, promising a way better life after Descention and hoping to manage his Daughter’s to Incarnation marriage… “damn the man,” Peasant swore. Meanwhile, Elder’s Daughter was strolling between machines that were scattered through Village, talking to all-solving deities trapped inside; but with the passing of time she dreamingly stared into vast plains ending in white limbo – since a great hero, Incarnation of Rohtua himself, would someday emerge from those milky depths.
Now Peasant would gladly hold his galloping thoughts to think about Elder’s Daughter just a little bit longer, but Rohtua the almighty decided that it should better be otherwise, and the obeying Peasant’s consciousness returned to… Rohtua reaching his full power and incarnating into a human form. The world existed to that very purpose, thus everything heeded and obeyed – and even Peasant was now walking straight to the Alchemist house to serve Descention in some enigmatic way.
“Good morning, grandpa!” Peasant took off the hat that has suddenly appeared on his head and bowed.
“Hail, Peasant,” Alchemist replied.
He was sitting on a doorstep knowing everything and doing nothing. Alchemist didn’t have any need for common things. It was so thanks to his pointed hat, his staff by which the old man trampled the dirt beneath, his fabulous purple mantle and his long straggly beard that was reaching the ground. For now, Alchemist was languidly spending his afternoon thinking, as he would please, of magical potions – but he could also appear on a whim, toss out a few prophetical hints and stride into nowhere parrying magic missiles with his bare hands and not even holding a grudge.
But the old man wouldn’t tell everything even to Incarnation, so what could Peasant hope for? He was greeted and that was quite enough. He had to be content.
“Proceed into the house of mine, O Peasant,” Alchemist bellowed, “and hear of the things wise and puzzled, that your feeble mind can barely comprehend.”
What could Alchemist say was known only to Rohtua and, it could happen, to Alchemist himself, but since Peasant’s Doom and Destiny were leading him today, he could do naught else but obey. He bowed to fit through the tiny door and walked inside. There, Alchemist by some abnormal means appeared to be already waiting at the table puffing a pipe and drumming his fingers on an obviously ancient scroll.
“Let it be known to thee,” Alchemist said shrilly, “that a great evil wearwolf dwells in the outskirts of Village, and no one – and thou in particular, O Peasant, – can slay the great beast.”
“How should we act, O wise one, tell me for I implore!” Peasant said and marveled at his own words.
“Only he who wields The-Sword-That-Knows-No-Scabbard, that has been forsaken a long time ago, but is to be found… wait a minute, lad, will you?” Alchemist added in a soft senile voice, rolled the parchment over the table, then gasped, rolled it back and winked slyly.
“Oho-ho am I tired,” Alchemist groaned out of sudden and rose. “Need some rest, yes I do, and you, lad, surely need to rest as well, because you have to be fresh for the battles to come.”
Peasant wanted to remind the old man that it was still quite early in the morning, but Alchemist grimaced and was acting as though he was pressing on a haystack by his hand, so Peasant was forced to be silent.
“Pretend you’re sleeping,” Alchemist whispered.
“What for?” Peasant wanted to ask but timely grasped that sleeping people aren’t talkative. He just fell on a floor directly where he was standing and sincerely sniffed and snuffled to look totally asleep.
“Nobody’s willing to kill you, lad, are they?” Alchemist whispered.
Peasant nodded frantically then grasped the question and said no as silently as he could.
“And no fair maid is willing to visit you?”
“Nope,” Peasant said casually and sighed.
“Listen here then,” Alchemist said. “When you sleep, lad, and nobody sneaks around to murder you or do anything or whatever, well, Rohtua doesn’t see you then. He spits on you, see? He’s just got other stuff to do, lad, there are dragons to be put into caves and magicians to be planted into towers and finally Incarnation to be moved through lands. Whoa, whoa, lad, be silent, it’s not happening today, see?”
Peasant jerked at the mentioning of Incarnation but managed to get hold of himself.
“Yep, so it happens,” Alchemist said. “It’s needed to be raining cats and dogs, and there have to be thunder and lightning all booming and sparkling, and then Incarnation would knock at the gates all with his glowing reddish eyes under the hood and he’d be like let me in, O good fellows, and I’ll slay the wearwolf afterwards. Sure he’s loved, cause he’s Incarnation, you know, but then again, what about us? Tell me, lad, has Rohtua ever ordered you to eat or sleep? Nope? Thought so. He’ll surely send you on a walk to some distant place, ‘course he will; or mayhap he’ll order you to lose your appetite or curse you with insomnia. Great godly fun he finds in bullying us, you know?”
“Well, maybe,” Peasant said. He didn’t want to upset Rohtua with his words. Not too much.
“He doesn’t hear you, I’ve told you that,” old Alchemist said carelessly. “Think of other things. We’ve got Incarnation to come and now you’re here. Do you know why is it so?”
Peasant surely didn’t.
“You’re the chosen one,” Alchemist whispered shrilly. “Not like Incarnation, of course, he’s the Chosen One, and you’re less important and are written in lowercase, but still, lad! You’ll do some deed to make Incarnation look heroic. Maybe you’ll try to oppose him and he’ll hack and slash you just to show off heroically.”
Alchemist glimpsed at Peasant’s scared face and went on softer.
“Or maybe not, perchance he’ll take you for a squire – to get some experience, to carry the swords’ collection and to be a hero some day which is not likely to come. But, lad, the thing I fear is that you’ll be eaten by the wearwolf. Sure as I live and breathe, since who’s more suitable?” the old man said and began counting by straightening his wrinkled fingers. “I am too old, Elder is too important, Commoners are too unimportant, Fool is not to be touched and Elder’s Daughter is the only girl around.” Alchemist waved his elderly hand with all the fingers straightened and concluded. “That leaves you, lad. Everyone has to see what a savage beast wearwolf is, otherwise there’re no heroics in slaying it. So, you’d better prepare yourself against Descention – and you’ll also surely help a poor old man as all the decent young people do.”
“How does it concern you, grandpa?” Peasant asked. He didn’t believe in his quick death too much, but still, delaying Descention for even a tiny bit would be awesome.
Old Alchemist sobbed.
“You know,” he lamented, “when Incarnation comes, I’ll have to show him this, um, map, and it’s not in particularly good order.”
Peasant caught the parchment that Alchemist had tossed him, rolled to his belly and unfolded the map. Then he gasped and then smiled widely. Whoever that Incarnation would be, Village surely wasn’t prepared for his arrival.
The priceless parchment has obviously been used for a casual tablecloth. Nutritious cakes and steaks have left their imprints on the inky hills and dells, a muddy river of unknown origin was rolling its thick waters somewhere over the edge of the world, and the elven capital was encircled in ominous crimson. Only after looking closer, Peasant managed to recognize it for a wine-cup trace.
The-Sword-That-Knows-No-Scabbard was most likely entombed under the layers of fat between the muddy river and a footmark of Alchemist’s boot.
“So what’s now?” the old man sobbed again.
Peasant shrugged and wanted to say something unintelligent but then the door cracked open and Fool strode in with a banana in his hand and a dictionary in another; thus he came and sat down with his leg under him, and nodded his head down instead of saying hello.
“Waiting for Incarnation, people, are you?” he said and bit the banana.
Fool was Rohtua’s favorite and had supreme divine rights to act however he pleased and ignore the laws of casual things like logic, common sense, physics or global changes in the world (and sometimes even the laws of grammar, as Commoners were gossiping). The way of acquiring such privileges was surely unknown to Peasant, but he grew quite reluctant of asking after a glance at the heavy dictionary that Fool possessed.
“We do,” Alchemist replied. “I’m telling the young man of the horrors that Descention would bring but he’s way too arrogant to listen, even though I am a wise and old man.”
Peasant intended to object but Fool didn’t let him.
“Lots of options, people,” he said. “That one,” he pointed at Peasant, “must be sent to Altar for asking.”
Fool brandished his dictionary carelessly as he spoke. There wasn’t much threat in the gesture, maybe, but the point was taken.
“Wait a bit,” Peasant protested. “What’s Altar?”
Both Alchemist and Fool gave him a reproachful glance. “Well now, just look at him,” Fool said and brandished his dictionary once more. Alchemist sighed.
“Now, lad, see…” he said. Peasant felt a great and long story beginning, turned to his back again, put an arm under his head and prepared to listen.
And Alchemist told him of a great wonder, which everyone has known about and only Peasant was living in ignorance knowing nothing. A long time ago, on the outskirts of Village a great Altar, which was dedicated to Rohtua himself, appeared out of lumps of space dust. Anyone could walk there and sacrifice some nice things, since anything that is put onto Altar floats directly to Heaven. If Rohtua liked the mortal’s offering, he could cheer up and even change his usual divine indifference to divine kindness. That was the exact reason for Peasant to go, to bring and to ask. The old man was prodding the map with a wrinkled finger, explaining the path and the things that people usually tell Rohtua, but Peasant was barely listening, being fascinated with his companions’ wisdom.
“…so now, lad, you’ll go and treat Rohtua with a couple of mugs of joyful fire trapped in water,” Alchemist said. “Booze, I mean,” he added seeing a doubtful expression on Peasant’s face. “Yep, he loves that stuff, and I happen to have some left just in case, but you’d better bring it to Altar intact, or…”
The old man waited for Peasant’s honest nods and looked at him strictly.
“Will do,” he said approvingly. “Stand up now and pretend you’re all waiting for Incarnation – and I’ll climb down to my cellar to look for some gift for Rohtua.”
Alchemist was groaning and panting somewhere below while choosing an appropriate jar, Fool stood upstairs reasoning the old man about the indifference of the jar’s insides and the apathetic Heaven’s dwellers who did not care what to consume after their godly deeds. Peasant leaned to a wall restfully being totally happy with the old Alchemist’s kindness and daydreaming of the things that he could ask Rohtua for his own means. Then, a cold, misted jar was shoved into his hands, he was patted on a back, they wished him good luck, said we’re depending on you, lad and led him to Village’s gates poking his back by the dictionary, then pushed him outside and wished him good luck again, just to be assured.
“But there’s the wearwolf,” Peasant thought. The gates clanged close behind him.
“Oh, dear,” he thought. “Oh mine.”
The forest was eerie. Peasant couldn’t comprehend when the whole day managed to pass, yet somehow it was densely dark, so he was hiding behind every tree-trunk, eyeing each gloomy bush cautiously – but still he walked, trying the ground before every step and pressing the sacramental jar to his chest. The ground smelled swamp. Murky, dark water sloshed beneath feet rising to ankles, and the trees behind were moving mockingly cutting off the way to an eventual fleeing. Peasant desperately wished to drop everything and run, for he could feel its approach. It was giving itself away by its rotten breath. It was hitting its sharp claws into the swampy dirt. The smell of wet fur tickled Peasant’s nostrils. When a shrilling howl rose above the pine-heads to the crimson moon (since that is the way all wearwolves always mark their presence), Peasant ran. The trees flashed before, tripping him up with their arched roots and spreading sticky cobwebs right before his face. Some foul bush jumped out of the shadows, slapped him with a rotten branch and knocked him down to dirt. Fortunately, falling Peasant turned his face straight to a long gray stone with the word Altar carved with ancient runes. How could he skip such a huge thing… surely it’s some black sorcery, he thought.
Holding his breath, he rose (not letting go of the jar, of course, neither allowing a single drop to be spilled) and would endlessly look at the blue sparkles gleaming on the flat grey stone – but a terrifying howl sounded right behind his back. Shivering, Peasant quickly put the jar on Altar. Nothing happened.
“Rohtua O mighty,” Peasant said hastily. “You’re the great, you’re the just, and it’s totally nothing to you, is it? There’s a wearwolf wishing to eat me, and I’m way too young to die, I’d rather live a long life making small children with my goody wife. Here’s something to you, O Rohtua, something that we possess and you created, neither do I know what it brewed of is, nor what it mixed with is. Here you are, Rohtua the mighty, some beer to your godly health.”
A clawed paw splashed into mud. Something moved in Heavens – perchance Rohtua has noticed the brought gift.
“Don’t you respect me?” Peasant hastened him. “That, I mean, please don’t be offended by my words, unwashed as they are, but rather help yourself to booze, O Rohtua the great, and please also take care of the wearwolf and I’ll go fetch some more beer when you’re done, I mean.”
A narrow current of beer ran up from the jar up into Heavens, straight and thin all the way it rose. Everything stilled, and then the silence was shattered by a thunder-roar from above, the sky cracked asunder sliced by a bright-blue lightning and a great wind hammered down and pushed the tree-tops to the very ground.
Thus, Rohtua the almighty was having fun.
(please see the attachment for the whole story)
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