Tales & Treasure Chapter 20
Vatis - Lost
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Rocks, tomatoes, apples, and onions flew onto the stage; Vatis put his arms over his face for protection and tried to escape.
He looked through a small slit between his forearms, searching for the narrow wooden staircase upstage. A rock hit him in the thigh, knocking him off balance. He tried to steady himself, but his left foot found a smashed tomato instead of the sturdy wooden planks. He slipped and fell, landing on his side. His makeshift shield split as he grabbed his leg in pain. He crawled to his knees, fruit continuing to bruise his body. He found the staircase. Reaching up, he pulled himself to his feet with the support of the railing. Another rock whizzed behind his head, bouncing off the wall with a loud thud. He fell down the last two steps as he rushed to get out of the audience’s range, landing on the muddy, worn grass at the bottom of the staircase. He rolled onto his back, covering his face with his hands.
“Are you alright, son,” the announcer said, running up and kneeling beside Vatis.
Vatis did not answer. He rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself to his knees with all his remaining strength.
“It’s a ruckus crowd today, son. And you are a foreigner. But, for what it’s worth, I loved your story. I had only heard rumors of this, Davas,” the announcer asked, helping Vatis to his feet.
Vatis brushed the announcer’s hand off his shoulder.
“Take it easy,” the announcer said, resting his hand on Vatis’ lower back.
“I’m fine,” Vatis said sharply, moving out of the announcer’s reach. “I’m fine,” Vatis repeated with more fervor.
“I’m sorry. It always hurts me when a young man like you gets treated like that. You’re talented. Who knows, in another town, you may have won,” the announcer said as he walked onto the stage to introduce the next performer.
“I am fine,” Vatis repeated, more to himself than the announcer.
“Thanks for getting them all worked up,” a shrill voice muttered to Vatis’ right.
A woman in a gray lace dress with straight blonde hair dangling just above her waist walked toward the stage carrying a flute. Her pungent, flowery perfume almost forced Vatis to sneeze. She looked like a trained musician. Her eyes scolded Vatis as she passed him and climbed the stairs. Her look of pure, unfiltered hatred turned to jubilation as she saw the crowd from the top of the staircase. She casually kicked a rock backward with her heel down the stairs toward Vatis while waving to the audience. It narrowly missed, ricocheting inches in front of his head.
“It is my pleasure to introduce the best musician in all Emre, four-time consecutive champion and last year’s runner-up in Barna, your home-grown maiden, Feya,” the announcer called with much more vibrato than he expressed for Vatis’s introduction.
The crowd hushed momentarily before deafening applause shook the stage. The praise seemed to last hours. How could this simple flutist garner such admiration?
He stood up; pain seared across his body. A rock had sliced his right eyebrow; he felt a trail of blood trickle down his cheek. His left side was a cornucopia of bruises and cuts. Despite his many injuries, no pain was worse than the few seconds of utter silence after his tale ended. The occupants of taverns had always enjoyed his stories. Vidmar and Taldor praised him endlessly. What’s different here? He desperately waited for approval, recognition, and the cheering of his name; instead, the silence saturated his body, numbing him for the beating that followed. Why didn’t they like the story? What did I do wrong?
He limped toward the main road before the announcer returned. He heard faint music through the buzzing in his head, an enchanting melody skillfully played, never missing a note. Feya’s skill infuriated Vatis. She was a great artist, and her performance assured his defeat. He quickened his pace, covering his ears with his hands until he could only hear the bustling street conversation and merchants peddling their wares.
“Sweet treats and mammoth ears for sale. Get ‘em while they last,” an older gray-haired woman called from a cart that smelled of spices and roasted nuts. This morning, he cheerily told her he would buy the whole cart after winning the prize. He was confident he would win. This was a small-town competition, not the grand competition in Barna, and recognized performers didn’t bother coming this far north.
“Hey, did you win?” the woman called in Vatis’ direction. “I made sure to stock the cart.”
Vatis turned the other way, ignoring the vendor’s call.
“I guess not, you know, nothing soothes pain better than a sweet treat.”
He thought about turning around, but he couldn’t; he couldn’t face another person, another judge. All he wanted to do was gather his things and leave town before anyone else could berate him.
Vatis found an alley between two buildings, hobbling as fast as possible. He made it to the next road; it was less busy and ran parallel to the main road. His bag was at Geoff’s, almost a mile away on the city's southern edge. The Braymore Inn was closer. Sure, he fit in with the ragged patrons of Geoff’s, but he wanted to taste the elegance of the Braymore before he left. He was unsure if he could walk there, not in his battered state. He inhaled deeply through his nose like he was starting his performance again. Vatis put his head down, avoiding eye contact with passersby, exhaled, and doddered to the inn. He didn’t rehearse this act. He didn’t fret over word choice or body language; Vatis performed.
The Braymore Inn was like many of the inns throughout northern Emre. A large sitting room was decorated with eight wooden tables; simple blue embroidered runners spanned their lengths. A gray stone fireplace on the back wall with a dark wooden mantle held various items: a framed painting of a beautiful, green-eyed woman, an expertly crafted brass box, a black figurine of a soldier raising a sword above his head, and a crystal vase with pink and white flowers. The room had an inviting aroma of mead and freshly baked bread. A well-polished bar with wooden stools lined the left side of the hall. Three barrels of ale sat between shelves full of wine, bread, herbs, and dried meats. Two elderly men sat side-by-side at the bar, joking with the bartender. Empty silver mugs adorned the table nearest the entrance, hinting that guests had left recently. A young blonde barmaid unsuccessfully scrubbed what appeared to be red wine out of the table runner. She looked up as Vatis entered.
“Darkness, what happened to you?” she said.
Vatis did not respond. He limped towards the nearest table, scaring the barmaid as she piled empty mugs onto a round tray. He almost fell through the wooden bench as he sat down. It tottered back and forth before settling into its proper place. He crossed his arms on the table, resting his chin on his wrists.
“You look like you’ve had better days. What can ole Jonathan get you? Ale? Mead? Something stronger?” the chiseled, broad-shouldered bartender asked. He filled a mug of ale from one of the barrels behind the bar. “A hot bath and a meal might help,” Jonathan smirked as he slid the frothy ale toward the older of the two men sitting at the bar.
“Thanks, Jon,” the white-haired man said with a thick northern accent.
Jonathan nodded and collected the coins, pocketing them in his elegant black apron.
Vatis remained silent. His head throbbed. He didn’t notice it on his way to the inn; the pain in his knee seemed to be the worst at the time. A dull ache pulsed from his forehead to the back of his neck. He lifted his head, rubbing his temples with two fingers on each hand.
“Here, on the house,” Jonathan said as he sat on the bench opposite Vatis. He pushed a mug halfway across the table.
Vatis blinked his swollen eyes briefly before he covered them with his hands. Blood dripped from his chin, missing the table and soaking into his muddy trousers. He dragged his hands down his face, irritating his cuts and bruises.
“Everlasting Darkness, who did this to you?” Jonathan asked.
Vatis didn’t answer. Instead, he grabbed the ale, downing its contents in three long swallows. He coughed as he set the mug down. “Another,” he said, wiping froth from his lip.
“Right away,” Jonathan stood and filled the mug again.
Vatis remained silent. Why? He thought. He watched a fly buzz around his table. It landed in a small pool of ale, rubbing its forelegs together like it was washing its hands. Vatis slammed his palm down. The puddle exploded outward, sending tiny drops of ale onto the table runner and his shirt. Vatis lifted his hand - nothing. The fly mocked him as it flew around his head. Vatis flailed both hands, growing more frustrated with each miss.
“Here you are,” Jonathan said.
Vatis slammed his palm down again. The dull thud echoed in the small tavern. Ale spilled from the mug. “Fucking fly,” Vatis yelled. He swatted the air around his ears. He picked up the cup, finishing the ale faster than the first. “Another.”