Whom The Gods Love

In the middle of the forest in the middle of the night is a lonely place to be. I wrote this originally for a compo at Imperial Literature (the catch being that someone had to lose their shirt at some point). I missed the deadline for the compo :-( Wouldn't have won anyway, but I kind of liked the story, so here it is. 1,300 words Writing time :1 day Finished :27th April 2006 Download as Word file

“Honoured sirs, honoured sirs! Pray, what is a poor man to do on a dark night like this when the wolves howl amongst the trees? Let me sit by your fire, honoured sirs, and warm these old bones. The Gods love a generous man, honoured sirs, yes, they do.”

Only one of the three men looked up, the firelight dancing in his eyes, the gold-braid in his hair glowing like the setting sun. He lowered his cards, but not his gaze. “The Gods love a man who can look after himself, grandfather, and in my experience generous men always want something. What would you bring to this fire, besides your prattle and nonsense?”

The old man stood, stooped and tired, his limbs weary and his belly as empty as his velvet purse. “I have nothing, honoured sirs. Nothing but the clothes I wear and the pride of my many years. I fear, yes I do, I have more to offer the wolves that draw near than I do such worthies as yourselves. The Gods bless a generous -”

“- enough, old white-head.” Gold-Braid turned to his companions. “What say you both? Stick-bones’ clothes and his pride. Is it enough?”

“Poor sport, but a slow night. It is enough,” whispered the second man, his black hood smothering his features in shadow.

“He may sit, but may only eat what he wins,” said the third man, his swollen lips thick with grease from the rabbit whose bones littered his feet.

The old man sat, and then slumped as exhaustion flooded from him, drawn into the warmth of the fire. He sighed, long and deep. “My clothes, then, honoured sirs, and my pride.”

Black Hood turned to him, keeping his cards as close as he kept his enemies. “Slow night or no, I have no desire to see an elder humiliated. I will play for your silk kerchief, nothing more.”

“And I for your velvet purse. Empty it may be, old long-whiskers, but it will hold these bones till soup may be made. I play for that, nothing more,” said Rabbit Bones.

Gold-Braid spat into the fire. “The Gods love a man who makes a deal. I play for it all. Your fine clothes, grey-beard, and your pride. Nothing less.”

So the cards were dealt, and the bets were laid, and the fire crackled against the night, and the howling of the distant wolves drew nearer.

“You come from Unthion, eldest of us? It is a long way through the forest, and not a path any man should travel alone,” said Black Hood as the swing was played and bets were gilded.

“I set out as the sun kissed the mountains good-day and the day goodbye, honoured sir, with the wind and more at my heels. These old bones have walked far this night, and surely this fire and the honour of your company is the respite the Gods send to those in need.”

“We will see,” said Gold-Braid, “what respite the Gods send a man who bargains himself into nakedness and dishonour by the light of a gibbous moon. Play, addle-pate, play and give me sport this night.”

But the old man played well, and played wisely, and he kept his silk kerchief with a gracious nod and three gold coins from Black Hood. And he kept his velvet purse, with a graceful smile and three gold coins from Rabbit Bones. And then Gold-Braid laid his final bet.

“Clothes and pride, old snap-bones, clothes and pride.” And the firelight flared in his hair.

The bets were laid, the gold coins played, but keen, and smart was Gold-Braid. He laughed and laughed, till the leaves of the tallest trees rustled to his mocking tune, and the cries of the wolves were all but drowned out. He laid his cards down, matching the old man’s hand card for card, until he played his last; his Tyrant to the old man’s Knave. The old man hung his head, and did tears soften his coarse cheeks? None could then tell, by the dying light of the fire.

He stood, turning away, and began to undress, without a word.

Gold-Braid stood too, his leering grin fouling the night. As the old man discarded them he picked them up.

“Look at this! The tailors of Unthion must have been sad indeed to see you go, snow-head.” He picked up shirt, breeches, hose and doublet, marvelling at the finery of the garments the old man spilled behind him. “Why, a bargain indeed have I received this night. What lady of Perithis or Mantle could refuse me in these? Look, gentlemen, the stitching here, the braiding there!”

But Black Hood and Rabbit Bones would not look, staring instead into the heart of the fire.

Laughing again, Gold-Braid began to shed his own worn and dirty clothes, and piece by piece he donned the fine raiments won from the old man.

“Listen to me now, old frost-face. As these clothes are so surpassing fair, and you shiver so in the cold, night air I will allow you a boon. You may choose how you lose your pride. My gift to you. Choose, old man. Choose well, and I will allow you to return to the fire wearing one item of my old clothes.”

The old man turned to face Gold-Braid, his nakedness covered with two frail hands. He paused, his eyes closed in shame, and listened to the wolves calling to the moon. He opened his eyes and saw the three men’s horses, tethered nearby. Already they had done what feeding horses will do, and the piles of ordure steamed in the night. Gold-Braid caught the direction of his glance.

“Well chosen, empty-gums, well chosen. Roll in the muck. Do it, and do it well, and I will keep my word.”

And so the old man set his jaw and did as Gold-Braid insisted, and Black Hood and Rabbit Bones shook their heads and knew that wherever Gold-Braid travelled in the morning, they would be going another way.

Picking up the fallen, torn frock Gold-Braid had now discarded, the old man wrapped it around his foul-smelling, filth-covered body, and returned, head-bowed, to the fire, the laugher of Gold-Braid ringing in his ears.

“If you have no objection, old white-head, I will sit at the other end of the fire from you. There is a rank stench I cannot quite place. But I will sit comfortably, in these fine, fine clothes.”

Black Hood’s hands came up and, for the first time since any of the other men had met him, he drew back his hood. A face like a knife sought something in the night.

“Those are no wolves I hear. They are not wolves, or I have not tracked musk-deer from tundra to taiga for nigh on twenty years.”

Rabbit Bones narrowed his eyes. “Wolves steal food from my stores. You are right. Those are not wolves. They are hunting dogs.”

The howling came closer. Deep in the forest, torches winked and flared. The sound of shod hooves on packed dirt thudded amongst the black trees.

“Hunting dogs?” Gold-Braid looked at the old man, and the old man looked back, the fire dancing in his eyes.

“I left Unthion rather in a hurry, honoured sir. At my heel something more than the wind.” The old man sniffed the air. “I wish I did not smell so bad. How I wish I smelt as fine as you do, honoured sir, in those fine, fine clothes.”

Gold-Braid leapt to his feet, steel flashing in his hand as fear and fury flashed in his face, the fire between him and the old man. The braying drew ever nearer, rising as the dogs scented their quarry. With a cry Gold-Braid turned and ran, vanishing swiftly into the cloak of the night.

A low chuckling came from Black Hood, as he drew the cloth over his head once again, and then from Rabbit Bones as he slowly nodded, a greasy smile tugging at his swollen lips. He picked up a leg of rabbit, and offered it to the old man.

“The Gods love a man who can look after himself, eh, grandfather?”

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