Re: The Archaeologist's Son
Last part people. This is the end...
Part 5
The city of New Bowerstone was busy, even at midnight. The day people had long retired to bed, and the night people had arisen, those who avoided, hated or slept through the sunlight. Night watchmen patrolled the corners and alleys of the city, picking up anyone too drunk or too unconscious or too dead to care. The businesses of the city thundered on, the mills and slaughterhouses, the carpenters and builders were all well into the night shift. Night traders were out, selling slightly more disreputable goods than their daylight cousins. The pubs and taverns still flowed with people, like squat monsters breathing, exhaling drunks and inhaling fresh drinkers. Those who didn’t wish their faces to be seen, or any other part for that matter, did their business at night. Upper-class Hobbes, banshees and vampires crept around, doing whatever they did. Bowerstone was a multicultural city. And a multispecies city too.
In one of the quieter alleys a man was lying. He was drunk. This was a good thing, in his mind – the alcohol dulled the pain and shock, and everything seemed a lot clearer in a really distorted way.
He was quite young. He had no really distinguishing features, especially not in the dark, except his left hand which was missing the little finger. At the moment, he couldn’t quite remember why it was missing. Someone had cut it off…
“I think,” he gurgled foggily “I think I was cut it orf…”
He frowned at this, unimpressed. That couldn’t be right. Ah well…
“They said sumfin ‘bout a Spririre,” he mumbled. “A Spirire…Tall an’ fin but not fin’shed yet. An’ Broworstoone, they said this was Bowerwerstone!”
This was apparently hilarious, and he coughed and spluttered, choking on drunken laughter. After a while he subsided, head falling back onto the pavement with a thonk.
“There wuz a man, wuz’nee calle’? The Arkeholojist or sumfin. Wuz’nee?”
And with that he fell asleep.
And so the Archaeologist’s son slept in a back alley of New Bowerstone, peacefully for now, which was probably just as well, sice things were going to get very rowdy quite soon.
The sun rose reluctantly over New Bowerstone, dreading what it might see there but looking anyway. This was the quietest time of day in Bowerstone – the night people had retired but the day people weren’t out yet. It was traditionally the time most people woke to find themselves in gutters and back alleys with splitting headaches, and sometimes very little else.
New Bowerstone was a lot bigger than the Bowerstone of ages past. It had been destroyed, not by demonic entities or raging heroes or armies of dragons, as one might expect and, indeed, hope – no, it had been ravaged by a barbarian horde, and a pitifully small one at that. But they’d been thrown out and then offered entrance again, this time for a small fee, which went some way to rebuilding the city. Some were still around now, trading fur and barbaric weapons, or drinking heavily and being thrown out of the taverns.
The old manor was still standing though – it was a major tourist attraction these days. Apparently it had once belonged to the Grey family, as had the mayorship of Bowerstone, although they didn’t have one of those any more. The mayorship had died out with the family 500 years ago. People still told tales of that time, when glorious Heroes were everywhere, and they had a Guild, even, and there had been Jack of Blades, who’d been defeated by another Hero, whose name could never be agreed on.
But the buzz on everyone’s lips at the moment was something quite different – the Spire. The name bounced across crowds without seeming to touch lips, the air conducting rumour faster than a metal rod in a thunderstorm. No one knew where it was, although it was common knowledge that it wasn’t finished, and also that it was enormously tall – 20 miles was the current rumour. It’s builder was a man callec Lucien, but that was all anyone knew about him.
The Archaeologist’s son had picked up a little of this when he’d staggered into the tavern the previous night, and now as he shuffled out into the painfully bright light he picked up something else. Apparently there was a new Hero wandering around. No one agreed as to whether this Hero was man or woman, or even as to their name, although they had done some quite astounding things.
Sounds like that Hero Father used to talk about, thought the Archaeologist’s son. Except he’s never as nice…
He stumbled on the pavement. Now that he was sober, important issues were hammering on the glass window of his mind, demanding to be let in. Getting home was one. Where he was was another. Damn magic and it’s damn space/time fluctuations.
He stumbled into a nearby tavern and sat down heavily. He ordered breakfast, and then, when it arrived, stared uncomprehendingly at it. His brain felt full. Thinking hurt.
“You alright, lad?”
The boy looked up into the cheerful and vaguely concerned face of the barman.
“Yeah, uh, thanks,” he said. “Um, can you tell me where I am?”
The barman did not look surprised. “Drank a bit much last night, didjer? Not to worry. This is Bowerstone, mate. New Bowerstone, to be precise. In Albion,” he added kindly.
The boy stared at him dumbly, then with a tremendous prescence of mind forced his mouth into action.
“Thanks. Uh, which way to the Heroes Guild? I need to be there soon…”
This did startle the barman. “Heroes Guild? We haven’t had one of those for almost 500 years, mate! It was destroyed, weren’t it? You must ‘ave drunk a lot to believe we ‘ad a Heroes Guild. Even foreigners know that!”
The boy sttod up suddenly. “Um, thanks,” he said, and then ran off.
The barman looked at the plate on the table. It was untouched.
“Waste not want not,” he muttered, and sat down.
The Archaeologist’s son reached the top of the hill very quickly. Desperation and temporal shock lends wings to a man.
He plunged into the trees, smashing branches apart with his fists, sending twigs and leaves flying in a great green spray. Nothing. The Door had gone.
He hadn’t expected anything else. He’d worked it out unusually quickly, having been blessed with a considerable intelligence, and also the stregth of character to believe that he wasn’t insane. 500 years, gone like the autumn leaves. And no way back.
He sat for a long time on the hill, until the sun began to hurry to it’s bed and the air grew cold. He wasn’t sad. In a way, he was very happy. He was continuing a family tradition. He’d research the ruins of Old Albion, and he’d have an amazing knowledge of them. People would say his name in amazement.
He spared a brief thought for his parents. They’d be alright. He’d find them, or what was left of them, here and now. He owed them that. And he’d say goodbye.
He couldn’t do anything else. All he had was here and now. And if here and now happened to be 500 years away from the here and now he was born in, so be it. So much the better, in fact.
He walked off down the hill.
The End
