The Poems of Madam Albithurst: There-And-Back

Now of course, I didn’t believe a word of what my dear Captain said. The High on High never involved themselves with anything without the firm insistence that their busybodying would prevent, or at least hinder, some catastrophe to the Myriad Worlds themselves. I, of course, rarely believed their prattle, but to release the Torquates…well, let me just say that I had experienced their incessant intensity before, and I was not willing to brush off their involvement so casually as my dear Captain wanted me to.

So there was little else for it. What else could I do? I sought out the attention of Mrs. There-and-Back.

Now, if you have never spoken to dear Mrs. There-and-Back, I must explain how dreadfully difficult it is to get their attention. First of all, Captain de’Laisey had summoned me to a tiny district on the High Respite Tide, as out of the way as out of the way could get. This was hardly the best way to entice the shy thing to speak to me, so first I had to find my way to lunch.

Alas, de’Laisey had forgotten to tell his underlings to fetch me a carriage, and the Anointed Bulwark are quite famous for their recalcitrance, so rather than attempt to charm a strong or strapping guard into providing me with some form of conveyance, I was forced to take a casual stroll along the patterned walkways, turning this way and that, wandering up and down the rolling path until I reached the nearest thoroughfare.

A great many things are said about the Gilbrim — that they come from the worlds of all worlds, that they smell foul and speak fouler, that their black wiry hair, piggy faces, long flabby ears, and jutting jaws are offensive to the sensibilities of all aesthetes — but I shall never say a bad word against them, for when you reach a thoroughfare across any of the Myriad Worlds, you are positively certain to find a Rickjin sitting there, a Gilbrim leaning against it, ready to grip its yolk in its two wiry hands and push you to where-ever you need to go.

So I climbed up into the Rickjin and told the tiny Gilbrim to run me to the corner of Aspid and Newroad. I chose this particular intersection, because it houses my most favorite of tea-houses; the Heavy Sift. Few are the tea-houses which operate in the open, anymore, and the Heavy Sift was known across the Myriad Worlds as a place for all those who did and did not fit in to make their acquaintance.

It is with some shame, though no regret, that I have never told my Guild-mates about the Heavy Sift. While I have written many poems about it, I have kept its specific name, location, and pertinent details secret all to my own, so that I might have a place to sit and relax without having to worry about running into one of my many fellows.

Too, I suppose, is my own covetousness, that I do not wish anyone else to see the things I have seen in the Heavy Sift, nor smelt, nor tasted, nor felt.

The Rickjin ride was quick and smooth. Outside the tiny box in which I sat, flickers of color and shape spun past, trickling through my eyes like streaks of rain. A pattering of feet chased after me, the Gilbrim’s flat calloused soles slapping and clapping against the smooth stone cobbles. A regular creak and squeak of springs tickled my ear, as the wide wheels creaked and snapped, jumping up and down while my own posterior remained quite comfortably stable.

Oh the sights one can see from a Rickjin, if one is quick! I saw shops and merchants from across the land, I saw men and women and beast and kin all frolicking about their lives. I saw feathered fish and weathered fowl alike sailing in the sky on their business.

I asked the Gilbrim to pause for just a moment, when we crossed The Bridge At The Half-way. I looked over the edge, but just as every time before, I couldn’t see what I was looking for.

Then on we traveled, the Gilbrim and me, dodging other Rickjins and shouting at passers-by. We traveled through junctions and intersections most pedestrians had forgotten. We passed the gruff part of Triumbra city, the rural and rolling hills of Goosetop Grange, the giant apartment complexes of Rextanville, filled with aching hearts and hopes. I drank it all in, as the charming little Gilbrim pushed me along, all the while babbling in his strange tongue. It might have been a song, for all I know.

At long last, but too soon for my liking, the Gilbrim jumped and landed his feet hard on the ground, scraping and sliding along until we stopped at the door of the Heavy Sift. I waited patiently, because Gilbrim are always polite for all their other foul habits, and took the driver’s hand when he offered to help me down. I paid him most handsomely, I am sure, and swept into the sunny interior of the Heavy Sift Tea-house.

I was delighted, I must admit, to see as many regulars as I did. Mr. Porist was there, as was his pet pookay. Mrs. Levston sat at her favorite table, reading the same newspaper as always. The emptybox nursed its tea in the corner, letting it cool in its saucer, while the Archreeve of Lady Prefane hunched over zer small meal of bread and buttered egg, zer eyes darting this way in that in the manner I had grown so accustomed to over the years.

It broke my heart, yes, right in two, that I could not sit and chat with each in turn, as to even entertain a conversation with another might frighten Mrs. There-and-Back away. So instead I found a suitable table, against the long wall between two large windows, and folded my hands in my lap to wait.

A charming waitress was at my elbow in seconds, and after a quick order of pink tea and a biscuit, I asked for her to bring a small sample of cheese-rinds from the kitchens, on a porcelain plate if at all possible.

I have heard many people say that a place where no questions are asked is a haven for scoundrels and vagabonds. All I can say is a thousand questions are asked every day in the Heavy Sift, and none are asked by the wait-staff. My tea and biscuit took only a moment, and less than a minute after came a small plate decorated with four thick cheese-rinds.

And so I sat, patiently, waiting for my invitation to be accepted.

It took almost an hour, and I daresay my silence may have offended Mr. Porist, who I could see was fitfully attempting to catch my gaze, but I could not spare him a glance nor a smile. Instead, I sat and sipped my tea.

At long last, when the last dregs of smooth and silky liquid swirled along the bottom of my cup, the one and only Mrs. There-and-Back took a seat at my table. Their face was masked with a look of cautious care, studying my own in case I would reveal some sign of malevolent machination.

But there was no malevolence in my heart, least of all towards my dear friend, so after a moment they sampled the old cheese-rind, taking a dainty nibble before replacing it exactly where they had taken it from.

The offering taken, I felt comfortable in speaking: “My dear Mrs. There-and-Back,” I said, without raising my eyes from my cup. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”

“Hmm.” The dear thing grumbled at my greeting. They had never been one for pleasantries, and I for one was not going to try and force the poor thing into a conversation they were not willing to have.

We sat there, in silence, for over an hour. I did not look up from my tea, and neither did Mrs. There-and-Back speak to me, for politeness comes in all manner of shapes and forms.

My tea became cold, the scientific process of which is well documented elsewhere, but it put me in mind of a particular poem.

Tea always begins its life as the hottest it has ever been. Burning and boiling hot water, popping and blopping along without a care in the world. It’s the distant sound of a heartbeat, the dull roar of ocean waves. Then poured into a shiny kettle to steep with dried crusty leaves, the life-blood of the tea infusing itself through the water, veins and tendrils of tannins stretching outward into the hot liquid.

My first taste is a painful one. Too hot, always too hot, the sharp pain on the tongue, the burn on the lips, the lingering sore as the faint and delicate flavors vanish, subsumed by my eager suffering.

I blow on it, cooling the steam that curls like willow branches, letting the icy wind suck away the heat to make it more comfortable, the chill of the tea’s grave. It brings out the flavors, the subtle sweetness of faint summer flowers, the dry muscle of curled black leaves, the musty musk of seasoned savory meat hidden under the branches of twig and stem.

Cooler still, and the flavors shift ever so gently, growing bold and bright, then soft and kind. Cooler still, and the tea’s life soon ends. The flavors gone, frozen in the still grave of my teacup. Colder than any spring-water, any room-temperature wine. Seasoned with rusty bones and dusty memories, there is nothing appealing about a cold cup of tea.

But politeness demands sacrifice, and so I forced myself, yes, forced myself, for my whole body revolted at the taste, to swallow the last drop of tea down my disgusted throat.

Only then did I dare to glance at Mrs. There-and-Back’s plate. I was delighted to see a full third of the plate was empty.

“S’good wheel, this.”

I nodded my welcome to their unspoken thanks, appreciative that they found my offering satisfactory.

“Right,” they said, in a voice tinted with brass gears, “Three questions.”

“And three answers,” I agreed to the well established rules. “From each to each.”

“Me first.”

“If you like,” I said, setting aside my cup and linking my fingers together.

Poor dear, they looked so hungry as they leaned forward, fingers pressing lightly on the table like a cat ready to pounce. “Where’s the Drescescin Hub?” they asked.

“Three days along the road out of the Casian Gate,” I answered. The poor thing had to have been desperate, to ask such an easily answered question. I wondered, not for the first time, how many friends they actually had. “How are you feeling?” I asked.

Mrs. There-and-Back’s eyes narrowed as they bared their square teeth. “S’stupid question. You askin’ that?”

In fact, I only had two questions I truly needed answers to, and so I considered it no problem for me to use the third to ask after a dear friend. “I am, in fact. You may answer, or refuse, as is your right.”

“Can’t refuse,” they grumbled. “Not like that. Fine. I’s fine. Managing. Wheels turn, they do. Always turn. Like it’s my turn now. Ready? Spoke of the Righteous; when is it going to land?”

Now at this I had to consider most carefully. I knew the answer, of course, thanks to a particularly long conversation with one of the Gaolers of the Seminchre during one of my many jaunts, about three months ago, but the truth was that it was still mostly a secret when the Spoke of the Righteous would once more grace the Myriad Worlds with its presence.

I could have refused to answer, of course, but then I would have had to take my comeuppance, and I was rather in a bit of a hurry, or so I thought, so I sighed and shrugged and wobbled my head in a theatrical struggle before responding.

They grinned at the answer, gleeful at the idea of once more having the chance to caress its lithe and golden form, and perhaps take a piece of it for themselves. I tried not to think about the consequences of such an action as they licked their lips, and grabbed the last rind from their plate, taking a bite much larger than the others.

But now it was my turn, so I asked the first question I needed answered. “Where is the Encinidine?”

Mrs. There-and-Back sputtered, spraying hard rind over the table. “What? Whattyr askin’ me that for? No one knows that save the High on High folks, an’ they ain’t tellin’ a soul, much less I.”

“Now, now,” I held out my hands in charming supplication. “If you don’t know the answer, can you at least tell me who might know?”

“No, I ain’t,” they clamped their mouth down hard. “Besides, you know who knows where it is, and he’s dead, ain’t he? Oh aye, I hear quick, I do. If the High on High ain’t turnin’ the whole Myriad Worlds upside down lookin’ for it, then they ain’t doin’ their job. An’ you ain’t got a prayer o’ findin’ it first for your little poem.”

“Just a part?” I begged. I daresay I was desperate too. “Just for a moment? Just for me, dear Mrs. There-and-Back?”

“Feh!” They slumped back in their chair hair falling over their eyes as they crossed their spindly arms. After a moment, they hissed; “Whydya call me missus?”

“Out of respect,” I said, giving the same answer I had been given when I asked the question to one of my Guild-mates.

“’s Stupid,” they said, gnawing on one of their many long nails. “You an’ that damn Guild. Sensates always lookin’. Now you got a dead Duke, and the first think you think is find part o’ the Encinidine so you can feel it.”

Now this was a remarkably poor description of what we of the Grandiose Guild of Sensationalists are about, but I was familiar with such exaggerations and mis-attributions of our fine tradition, so I merely said: “I imagine there are a great many people searching for it already. What is one more?”

Mrs. There-and-Back glared at me, and snapped their fingers at my chest. “You got the worst sense of self-preservation, yeah? Not just a great many people, is it? It’s the Archonarchy. It’s the Arcwhite Kingdoms. The Rim-runners. Dworgs. Yattrinti. It’s the whole damn war being fought again in proxy, ain’t it? No, you going to wander into a war-zone lookin’ for something to write a poem about. You don’t even know they’re missing; the Torquates might already got it in their scaly claws.”

“I don’t ask you to understand,” I said, and at the time I meant it. “I just ask you to answer my question.”

That irritated poor Mrs. There-and-Back, and they slumped down, muttering to themself about my foolish behavior, childish attitude, and complete lack of common sense. Nothing I had not heard before.

“Fine,” they said at last. “You going to walk into a death-trap, you do it right. I tell you this. Take a barge to the Sibilants. Someone there knows.”

“The Sibilants?” I will admit to my shock and surprise at their answer. “There must be hundreds of thousands living there.” And few were agreeable, much less conversant sorts.

“Millions,” Mrs. There-and-Back grinned. “One of them knows. One.”

“But all manner of things reside there, and in all manner of places,” I could not let her answer go. “Could you not narrow it down to a single canton?”

“Nope,” they giggled with perverse glee. “One of them knows. Don’t know where. Could be in the Apex, could be in the Charnel. Could be in the Elbow. Could be in the Sixth-wing.”

“Yes, well, I suppose it’s your turn,” I grumbled. “Unless your asking why I called you missus was your third question?”

They sneered at me, and then leaned forward once more, their eyes locking with mine.

There is an intensity in the eyes of Mrs. There-and-Back. A ferocity that I only have ever seen once before. During one of my many jaunts, I happened to travel across the Scarlet Savannah of Sa’bar’eht. It was quite warm, enough that one of my hands was forced to be forever waving back and forth, giving the air some semblance of life to fend of the burning heat.

My companion was a broad-shouldered Quonai from the far edge of the Savannah. Her soothing voice sang the most beautiful songs, from her childhood, she said. She pointed out the many fauna and flora that spread across her land like she were introducing me to old friends, which, of course, in a way she was.

We were heading for the sacred mound, the only place where the Quonai could brew and share the drink known as Lanis Tears. We were but a day away when she told me to be quiet and hide in the brush. She had smelled the scent of a Calabash Cat, and needed to keep me safe while she set out to stalk and skin the vile beast.

I sat there for almost a full day, when I happened to turn to my right, and there I caught the eye of the Calabash Cat.

I shall not recount the poem I wrote of the experience here, as so much of what happened then depended on what happened before and after, but I shall say this: the eye of the Calabash Cat is not the eye of a beast. In its spiral iris, the thousand souls of its many hunts spin in recurring memory. A thousand possibilities all caught and held in the poor thing’s head. I daresay my guide was merciful.

But here is where the Calabash Cat and dear Mrs. There-and-Back were separate, for while I can easily portray the poor cat’s demise as a blessing, I can in no way couch Mrs. There-and-Back’s eventual end as anything but an abject tragedy. There would be nothing crueler to impart on the dear thing than a premature death.

They stared at me with those eyes, and then closed them with a long slow sigh. “Sure. Yeah, it were.”

Now as trapped as I had been by those eyes, I had lost the train of our conversation. An impoliteness to be sure, but one easily remedied for one with the knack of memory, as I have. “Mrs. There-and-Back, I wouldn’t dream of pulling some unjust trick on you. I am no trapped god or shayjinn more concerned with the letter of the law than the spirit. Your asking why they call you Mrs. was certainly not your intended third, and so you still have a third question to ask me, and I have a third for you.”

“Nah,” they shook their head, their long black hair wafting back and forth like ghostly wisps of fog. “You dunno the answer. That’s it. S’good wheel, this.” They reached out and took the last of the rind, slipping it into some unseen recess of their clothing, never to be seen again by mortal eye.

“But, I still have my question,” I pleaded. Yes, I say pleaded, for it was only by Mrs. There-and-back’s mercy that I would hear the answer.

“Nope,” they slipped up from the table and floated towards the door, feet barely touching the ground. “All done. You got what you need. You want more, you know the price.”

This, I daresay, was perfectly typical of the selfish cow. If there was nothing in it for them, they wouldn’t stretch out a fingernail to a drowning child. I had tried, along with several of my fellow Guild members, to convey concepts like friendship, cooperation, and generosity to them, but the lessons, alas, had not appeared to take.

“I beg you to reconsider” I am not ashamed to admit it. I begged the haggard wench, as in my foolish and unfounded effort to be kind to the foul witch, I had saved my most important question for last. I had thought to discover who had killed the Duke of Ten Vials, or perhaps how my hat-pin had ended up in the poor unfortunate’s rigored hand.

And yet, when I looked up again, there lay a tiny wooden cube on the table, as one might find in a child’s toybox. It was red on two sides, blue on two sides, and yellow on two sides. It was Mrs. There-and-Back’s punishment for breaking the rules, and therefore mine for the taking.

It was too late, yes, far too late. She had known the punishment, and refused to even ask her question. Even to ask! I still to this day find myself in great confusion as to what her question might have been. In my darkest hours of fancy, I imagine that I know the answer now, and when next we meet, she will ask it of me.

I sat in silence for a moment, regret and despair crawling in the edges of my mind, through the cracks and windows in everyone’s brain, when Mr. Porist approached my table, bold as brass.

I say approach, but there was a particular way with Mr. Porist. He was of the gnomish persuasion, though many years back I’d swear there was some fervish blood. His ears were long and drooping, his nose long and thin. His chin hung low to his chest, and his brushed back brow gave him a charming horse-like demeanor. His dark eyes darted this way and that, his nerves frayed by the ever-present uncertainty that was life.

That is to say, he did not so much approach, as he did adjust.

“Madam Albithurst?” he said, after clearing his throat in a most polite manner. “You are well, I hope?”

If I might take a moment to praise my physical prowess, I daresay even the Calabash Cat could not have snatched the tiny box from the table with such speed. I was certain at the time I would never use it, but time has since made a fool of my confidence. “I am quite well, Mr. Porist,” I said in reply, though I said this out of politeness, rather than honesty. I was still quite perturbed at Mrs. There-and-Back’s hasty retreat. I had so far gained only a single clue as to the location of the Encinidine, and it was not a particularly helpful one. “How are you and your dear pookay?”

The lovely little beast tried to climb onto my lap, slobbering and scratching and desperately eager to lick my face. “Oh,” Mr. Porist wrung his thin fingers. “Oh, he’s fine. Quite well, in fact. I’m well too. I’m…well, it’s definitely time for me to get my ears trimmed again, because I couldn’t help but overhear…” the offending orifices wobbled as he leaned forward, tilting his head to glance around the room. “Did I hear you say you were planning on a little travel? One of your jaunts, perhaps?”

Now it is to my shame that my thoughts had not been on having one of my jaunts, but at his mention of travel, I knew as clearly as I know the color of the sky that I would be traveling. A single clue was all I had, but surely the death of the Duke of Ten Vials was directly related to the Encinidine itself? If I hunted for it, surely I would likewise be on the trail of the killer, by necessity.

My future thus assured, I faced my friend with clear eyes. “I’m afraid it’s not a jaunt,” I answered. “I will be traveling on Guild business.”

“Oh!” Mr. Porist’s eyes widened, and he rubbed at his long needle-nose. “Oh, I see! Well, then perhaps you could help me? I happen to have need…a great need, that is…to travel to the coast where the Tides of Three Shades roll. You see, there is a particular shell of amber held by a crab of my acquaintance —”

“Yes, yes, Mr. Porist,” I held up my lace gloved hand to stop the poor dear’s nattering. “I imagine you want a traveling companion?”

“Oh!” the black orbs that framed Mr. Porist’s nose glowed with a fish-like glimmer. “That would indeed be wonderful!”