Ishgrad the Heartless

New York, photo by J.R. Forbus

from The Manual of the Perfect Pilgrim

"You are heartless," the falling rain told him.

"Me, heartless? I actually have four hearts, each beating faster than the other. You can take one if you wish and feel how it tastes."

"No," the rain replied. "The precipice of the sky is enough for me. It has a heart too, you know—one filled with maddening darkness... and void."

Ishgrad's attempt to flee from the rain was blocked by the puddles before him.

"We won't let you go."

"Why?"

"Because we are the mud, the debris of the day that comes to an end and piles up on the sides of your life. We are immortal, like the water that unites us. We are the X of the primeval soup. And who are you?"

"I am a seeker of truth. I am a man with a strange name, wearing a ragged old coat, and carrying a bag full of nothing."

The man leaped over the puddles just in time before the drain could drag him down to the solitary depths of the Earth. He walked along the deserted road, which wound in eternal circles on the edge of the megalopolis. That road was shunned by the powerful, but the outcasts of every country made it their home.

In the sleeping outskirts of the city, at night: a place of dim lampposts and shut doors, a labyrinth of forbidden whispers. Ishgrad knocked at a door, and a few minutes later a woman answered with a sleepy voice.

"Who knocks at this time of night? A vagrant, no doubt."

"Your words honor me, madam. In the past, I was called a common man many times, and believe me, there is no worse insult in the entire world."

"You may enter, then, for he who is a dreamer is welcome in my humble abode," she said, swiftly unlocking the door.

The woman was a winter older than a girl. Not thin or beautiful, but prettier than her shadow. She welcomed him as if he were a prince and introduced him to the living room, where crystals and china vases stood as the frail symbols of false wealth. As the guest sat on the sofa, the host opened a cabinet and took out a dusty bottle of cognac, accompanied by two opaque glasses.

"Would you like some, vagrant?"

"Of course, of course. A glass filled with dust is an offer no man can decline. Who knows? Maybe a drink will give me a glimpse of the truth I so desperately seek."

The woman handed him the glass and poured a few inches of cognac.

"In my abode," she said with a mischievous glance, "liqueurs are the nectar of love."

"I’m sorry to ruin your plans, madam, but my heart is sworn to truth."

The lady seemed not to hear this last remark.

"There is dust in your mouth, pilgrim. Drink it in one go, and let us toast to the falsehood that blinds the world!"

Glasses clinked. Ishgrad wetted his lips with the cognac and the kisses that his host offered him, in spite of his words, in spite of his quest. So he drank greedily, all night long.

He woke at dawn and left her a note:

"I must leave," it said. "Speak to me in the wind; I will listen."

by Jason R. Forbus