Gardens of the Moon

“Alas, the very same dream propels these many-toed implements beneath these wobbly knees.” He sighed. “Ever the same dream.” And so it was. He saw before him the sun riding the distant hilltop, a copper disc through woodsmoke haze. His feet carried him down the winding dirt street of Gadrobi Shantytown the shacks and huts on either side crouching in the gathering gloom. Old men wrapped in the dingy yellow rags of lepers squatted over nearby cookfires, falling silent as he passed.



Similarly clad women stood by the muddy well, pausing in their endless dunking of cats-a bemusing activity, its symbolism lost on the man as he hurried past.



He crossed Maiten River bridge, passed through the dwindling Gadrobi Herder camps, out on to the open road flanked by vineyard plantations. He lingered here, thinking of the wine these succulent grapes would produce. But dreams carried on with their own momentum, and the thought was but fleeting in its passage.



He knew his mind was in flight-fleeing the doomed city at his back, fleeing the dark, brooding smudge in the sky above it; but most of all, fleeing all that he knew and all that he was.



For some, the talent they possessed found its channel through a toss of knucklebones, the reading of heat fractures in scapulae, or the Fatid of the Deck of Dragons. For Kruppe, he had no need of any such affectations. The power of divination was in his head and he could not deny it, no matter how hard he tried. Within the walls of his skull rang the dirge of prophecy, and it echoed through his bones.



He muttered under his breath. “Of course this is a dream, the flight of sleep. Perhaps, thinks Kruppe, he will in truth escape this time. None could call Kruppe a fool, after all. Fat with sloth and neglect, yes; inclined to excesses, indeed, somewhat clumsy with a bowl of soup, most certainly. But not a fool. Such times are upon us when the wise man must choose. Is it not wisdom to conclude that other lives are of less importance than one's own? Of course, very wise. Yes, Kruppe is wise.”



He paused to catch his breath. The hills and the sun before him seemed no closer. Such were dreams like the hastening of youth into adulthood, a precipitous course one could never turn back on-but who mentioned youth? Or one youth in particular? “Surely not wise Kruppe! His mind wanders-Kruppe excuses the pun magnanimously-racked by the misery of his soles, which are tired, nay, half worn out from this reckless pace. Blisters have already appeared, no doubt. The foot cries out for a warm, soapy balm. Its companion joins in the chorus. Ah! Such a litany! Such a wail of despair! Cease complaining, dear wings of flight. How far is the sun, anyway? just beyond the hills, Kruppe is certain. No more than that, surely. Yes, as certain as an ever-spinning coin-but who spoke of coins? Kruppe proclaims his innocence!” A breeze swept into his dream, down from the north carrying with it the smell of rain. Kruppe began fastening his threadbare coat. He drew in his belly in an effort to secure the last two buttons, but succeeded in clasping only one. “Even in sleep,” he groaned, “guilt makes its point.”



He blinked against the wind. “Rain? But the year has just begun! Does it rain in the spring? Kruppe has never before concerned himself with such mundane matters. Perhaps this scent is no more than the lake's own breath. Yes, indeed. The question is settled.” He squinted at the dark ridge of clouds above Lake Azur.



“Must Kruppe run? Nay, where is his pride? His dignity? Not once have they shown their faces in Kruppe's dreams. Is there no shelter on yon road? Ah, Kruppe's feet are flailed, his soles bloodied shreds of throbbing flesh! What's this?”



Up ahead was a crossroads. A building squatted on a low rise just beyond. Candlelight bled from its shuttered windows.



Kruppe smiled. “Of course, an inn. Far has the journey been, clear the need for a place of rest and relaxation for the weary traveller. Such as Kruppe, wizened adventurer with more than a few leagues under his belt, not to mention spanning it.” He hurried forward.



A broad, bare-limbed tree marked the crossroads. From one heavy branch something long and wrapped in burlap swung creaking in the wind. Kruppe spared it but the briefest glance. He came to the path and began his ascent.



“Ill judgement, pronounces Kruppe. Inns for the dusty journeyman should not sit atop hills. The curse of climbing is discovering how great the distance yet to climb. A word to the proprietor shall be necessary.



“Once sweet ale has soothed the throat, slabs of juicy red meat and broiled yams eased the gullet, and clean, anointed bandages clothed the feet. Such repairs must take precedence over flaws in planning such as Kruppe sees here.”



His monologue fell away, replaced by gasps as he struggled up the path. When he arrived at the door Kruppe was so winded that he did not even so much as look up, merely pushed against the weathered panel until it swung inward with a squeal of rusty hinges. “Alas!” he cried, pausing to brush the sleeves of his coat. “A foamy tankard for this:”