The Raiselig Dossier: A Small Favor
Raiselig was walking before they even felt the tug. Their feet were moving once more before they even knew which direction to go. It didn’t matter, their feet knew.
They had only felt such a pull some time before; a darker time in their life. They had hoped to never feel it again. A small piece of their mind was grateful they had not been studying some finer point in case law or researching important precedent, lest they had been forced to leave important documentation behind. As it was, they only had to reach out and pull their yellowwood cabinet onto their back before they continued to walk.
Their stride was wide and strong and carried them far along the road before they broke into a run. They couldn’t stop themselves. They weren’t sure they wanted to.
They passed towns and villages, farmers and merchants, wandering minstrels and sharp-eyed guards. Raiselig darted through the dark and hidden places, turning from shadow to shadow as they drew closer, and as they drew closer, the pull became stronger still.
Before long, they weren’t running anymore; they were falling.
At last, they reached the door of the Horned Serpent.
They did not stop. Tearing open the door with what could only be called passion, Raiselig ran into the tavern. It was empty of patrons, though not unusually so, considering the time of day. Calchona, however, stood behind the counter holding a tiny string in her hand. The string was burning from one end.
Raiselig took a single step forward. The string snuffed out.
“I’m sorry,” Calchona said, setting the burned length of string aside. “I didn’t know how else to contact you.”
Raiselig caught their breath, tugging their clothing back into a more reasonable state. They wanted to be angry — furious at Calchona’s betrayal.
But no, for the bartender to resort to such old magics, with such drastic consequences…Raiselig took a slow and steadying breath before letting their yellowwood cabinet thud to the floor. “I would have preferred a letter,” they said at last.
“When would you have received it?” Calchona asked, putting the candle away and starting to wipe the counter.
“I always make my way back,” Raiselig protested, moving to the bar. “I was planning on visiting again…quite soon, I’m sure.”
Calchona didn’t answer. She finished wiping the counter free of dried petals and ash, and produced two bowls from behind the bar.
One was full of dry rice, the other water.
Raiselig froze, half seated in their stool. After a moment, they looked up.
“Officially,” Calchona nodded.
Raiselig sat down. “You’ve never hired me before,” they said, a meaningless sentiment, they realized as they spoke. No one knew better than the two of them what their relationship had consisted of.
“I need your help.”
“You could ask for my help. If you want to hire me, what you need is my influence.” Raiselig cocked their head. “You’re nervous.”
“I am,” she admitted.
“What on earth for?”
Calchona look down at her hands as they still gripped the bowls. “I don’t want this to change things between us.”
“Every time we meet, things change,” Raiselig clasped their hands in their lap.
“I don’t want you to…” she paused, biting her lip. Raiselig waited patiently, pausing in their stare only once, to brush a small piece of lint from their sleeve.
Calchona opened her mouth, and then closed it. After a moment she spoke again. “I didn’t want to start like this.”
“Then we shall start again,” Raiselig flashed a stiff smile. “We shall hide our discomfort in the warm shield of professionalism. Why do you need a Scrivener?”
“In the caves outside the city,” Calchona took a breath. “There is a lost soul who needs release.”
Raiselig frowned. “A lost soul…I’m afraid I am going to ask you to refrain from poetic flourish. The art of Scrivening is the art of precise communication.”
“I know,” Calchona snapped back. “I’ve heard you talk about it enough. I’m not being poetic, I’m being precise. It’s a lost soul.”
Raiselig leaned back. “Are you certain? Lost souls are quite rare. They are the result of a generations long process of constant and intentional neglect.”
“I’m certain.”
Raiselig rubbed a finger along their lips. “A lost soul in the caves…And you know about this because…”
“People talk. They come back from the caves and tell stories about what they’ve seen and heard. Word spreads. I talk with a lot of people during the day, and the stories all come to me. Besides, I’ve gone myself.”
“You have?” Raiselig blinked.
“Surprised?” Calchona gave a wry smile. “I can get out from behind the counter every once in a while.”
“No, I…” Raiselig cleared their throat. “I know you can.”
“Good. I’m not just a bartender, you know.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
They stared at each other, each waiting for the other to speak.
Raiselig broke the silence. “If it is a lost soul, I will need to research the locality.”
“It’s Neverdark,” Calchona cocked her fleecy head. “What don’t you know about Neverdark?”
“Not just Ad Adwazi,” Raiselig said, “but the cave systems. Everything about them; their formation, their influence on the local flora and fauna, any legends, bogies, residents, and related judicial activity.” They reached out to the bowls, gently dipping their fingers in the water. “Then there are the release papers for lost souls…they are extensive.”
“How long?”
Raiselig thought for a moment before selecting a single grain of rice and placing it underneath their tongue. “I will be ready in two hours.” They stood, and walked back to their yellowwood cabinet. “I presume my usual room is available?”
The cave system itself was not particularly interesting. Raiselig had traveled many caves before, for various reasons, and while they were all unique, they were also all the same. The only item of interest, Raiselig noted, was a long rope-fence that led them deeper into the caves. Had they followed the rope, they were certain it would have led them out again.
Deep into the darkness they walked, Calchona leading the way with a lantern gripped in her hoofed hand. Raiselig hadn’t needed it, but thought it impolite to mention.
A echoing drip filled the air. “Almost there,” Calchona raised the lantern higher. “The pool is just up ahead.”
Raiselig nodded with grim satisfaction. There were any number of reasons why a lost soul might reside over a pool. An ancient drowning, or perhaps a disease that blossomed in the stagnant water.
The dripping continued as they approached. The pool was large and deep, the brackish water quivering in the dim light. Calchona set the lantern on a nearby rock. “There. Now we wait for her.”
“Her?” Raiselig frowned.
Calchona didn’t have time to answer. The darkness over the lake began to shift and fade, burning away like mist in the dawn light. A pale blue shimmer took its place, slowly forming into a distinct and familiar shape.
Limbs pushed out from the amorphous oval. A head? Trailing cloth? The arms stretched outward and became hands! The hands had fingers! Ten of them!
A head, for it must have been a head, twisted and yawned for a moment before it spoke. “Calchona? Is that you?”
Raiselig opened their mouth in amazement as Calchona gave a gentle wave. “It’s me, yes. I brought the friend I told you about. They’re a Scrivener, and they’ll be able to help release you.”
The spirit turned to face — face! — Raiselig. “Hello.”
“You have a face,” Raiselig said with gritted teeth.
“I do?” The spirit’s eyes widened. “I had no idea.”
With a deep breath, Raiselig set down their yellowwood cabinet and unlocked its doors. Pulling their prepared documents from their cubbyhole, they tossed the papers out into the water of the pool.
“What’s wrong?” Calchona asked.
“You told me this was a lost soul,” Raiselig explained, slamming the cabinet doors shut again. “I was very precise.”
“And so was I,” Calchona said. “Dead for fifteen generations, unable to pass on, how else would you call it?”
The spirit turned back and forth between the two of them. “Please, I don’t want to cause any trouble.”
“Want.” Raiselig spat. “It has a face. It can talk to me. If I couldn’t smell differently, I’d say this was one of your mortal friends dressed up in a sheet.”
“I’m sorry,” the spirit floated from side to side. “I’m afraid this is all my fault. You see, it was I who asked Calchona for your help. I certainly was a mortal, many years ago. And from everything Calchona’s told me, I certainly feel like a lost soul.”
“You are not,” Raiselig shook their head. “You cannot be.” They looked the spirit up and down. No, they couldn’t be. Could they?
“Ah,” the spirit nodded. “Thank you for telling me…Can I ask how you know for sure?”
Raiselig glanced at Calchona, whose eyes held a sharp expectation. “Hm…Lost souls, particularly those of the relatively-recent-dead, tend to have less…cohesion. They are less individual beings and more presences. Feelings. The fact that you can even recognize our presence makes you more alive than dead.”
“I’m not dead?” The spirit’s eyes widened again. The whisper of a hand reached up to their throat. “I can’t be. I haven’t breathed in centuries, and I’m sure I don’t need to eat or sleep.”
“A conundrum, yes,” Raiselig frowned.
There was a pause. Calchona stepped forward, staring into Raiselig’s burning blue eyes. “You’re curious.”
“No I am not.”
“I know that look. You don’t know what they are, and you want to find out.”
“It is a conundrum,” Raiselig admitted. “This…Gentleman?”
The spirit frowned in thought. “…I think I was…a…no…no,” they shook their head. “It’s gone now. Sorry. Whichever you prefer, I think will be fine.”
“This person obviously is not dead, given their clear and self-evident ability to interact with the living. At the same time, if they are to be believed, they do not eat, drink, breathe, sleep — and neither do they appear to be affected by the usual limitations of the living, vis a vi opacity and gravitational adhesion.”
The spirit turned helplessly to Calchona, who shrugged.
Raiselig sighed. “You are floating, and we can see through you. Hardly typical of the living. No, you are something else. Something I haven’t encountered in some time. Do you have your papers?”
“My what?”
“Your classification papers, what was filled out when you became what you are now. Or, if you do not have access, can you tell me who was present to noterize your papers, or in which filing office they currently reside?”
“I…” the spirit shook its head. “I don’t remember.”
“Hmm.” Raiselig frowned. “Then I will have to research you.”
“Really?” Calchona smiled. “To hear from Vharpanu, you haven’t needed to research anything in centuries.”
Raiselig didn’t answer, but instead turned back to the yellowwood chest. “I have a great many questions I will need answers to. If you have the time?”
“I have nothing but time, I think.”
“Good,” Raiselig pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, signing the top with their name and the date. A few notes later, and they settled themself down at the edge of the pool. “Calchona, I will be here for some time, I think. If you wish to leave and come back later —”
“No,” Calchona said. “I’ll stay.”
Raiselig glanced at her. Her jaw was set, her eyes cold. They gave a short nod. “To begin with,” Raiselig said, turning back to the spirit, “what is the first thing you remember?”
Of the thousand Gods of the world, there are many creators. There are many destroyers. There are Gods of ancient eras and the changing seasons, yet somehow there are no worshiped Gods of Time. There were no Gods of the passing seconds and minutes, Gods of the journey from future to past. Gods of old age, yes. Gods of history, certainly. Gods of good fortune and oracles of what-is-yet-to-come littered the skies and Pantheons like leaves in autumn. But the essence of time passing was not worshiped.
Gods of creation, Gods of destruction, oftentimes one and the same, were worshiped with devout passion, but the simple elegant act of a drop of water landing on stone was ignored. Over the centuries, the water pulled the ceiling down in a sharp stalactite. Beneath the sharp cave tooth, a stalagmite formed. A thousand drops, a million, creating what was not there before. On the walls, rivulets carved away over the eons, eroding channels and holes into the solid rock.
Time was the perfect creator and destroyer. Time made the caves were made what they were, and in the future they would change again. The sound of wind through the holes and jagged teeth created a distinct sound, a sound that was the first breath. There was no second breath, for each gust changed the air and stone within. Dust settled and spun, water continued to drip, and the ever-present change continued.
Raiselig set down their pen. “I see.”
The spirit floated this way and that, flowing through the air like water. Raiselig could hear faint whispers of wind as it spun about. “I’m sorry, that’s all I can remember.”
“No, no,” Raiselig re-read what they had written down, “this is all very helpful. Now I must ask; as far as you know, what are you?”
“I don’t know,” the spirit said. “When Calchona, my dear friend, told me I was a lost soul, it sounded…very right. I remember things from my…well, I don’t know if it’s life, but it’s certainly something. I remember people that I cared about, and they cared about me. They gave me things, like food and comfort. They asked things of me, and I tried to give them if I could, and now…I mean, that’s life, isn’t it?”
“Some would agree,” Raiselig picked up their pen again and rested its end against their cheek. “Tell me about these people.”
They came in bands, or alone. They whispered to themselves and marveled at the caves about them. They tossed coins into the pool. They sat down and ate picnics. They hated and loved and each one left a mark. A footprint. The echoes of their voices cut through the caves, changing the dust in their own special ways.
Time passed on. The water dripped. The wind blew.
“Hmm…” Raiselig stared at the shadow’s face. “Tell me, what do you want?”
“Release,” the spirit said without hesitation. “I want to be freed.”
“Why?”
Now the spirit hesitated. “What do you mean?”
“What I say. You currently appear to be a kind of local animistic representation. You are given purpose and meaning by the people who come here. You are given offerings. You have even achieved some level of anthopomorphism. It seems like you have everything you need.”
The spirit looked back and forth between Raiselig and Calchona before the bartender spoke up; “It’s alright, tell them what you told me.”
“I don’t feel right,” the spirit said, meekly. “I’m sorry for the trouble, I know you’re trying to help, but…I just know something is wrong.”
“That could easily be a simple classification error,” Raiselig flipped through a nearby notebook. “You still do not remember how the first Scrivener classified you when you first manifested?”
“I don’t know what that means,” the spirit said. “You are the first Scrivener I’ve ever seen.”
“I am certain that is not true,” Raiselig frowned, turning back to several history texts. “Based on my research, these caves have been adequately audited several times during the past century, and given your current cohesion, you are old enough that you must have been classified during, at the very least, the most recent audit. That would be…” they read quickly, “Scrivener Ophesi Kohhlan. A tall and thin man, I believe, with a long red beard? Do you remember him?”
“I…I don’t think so?” the spirit grimaced. “I’m sorry, it’s hard to remember so long ago.”
Raiselig slammed the book shut. “And yet here you are! There is nothing in the records about you, and I know Ophesi’s work well enough to know he would not neglect to adequately file his documents! You cannot have been manifest during the last audit, and yet you are as cohesive as a ghost that has been around for centuries! You are not a lost soul, you are a problem.”
“I’m sorry!” The spirit wailed, hands clutching at the air. “I don’t want to be! Please, just set me free, and I’ll go wherever I need to go. You’ll never see me again!”
“Stop it!” Calchona’s eyes flashed with anger. “Stop being so cruel! Your thrice-damned record isn’t important! Just give them what they’re asking for! It’s why I hired you!”
The echoes of anger melted away in the distant darkness. Raiselig carefully set down their book, and rested their chin on the tips of their fingers. “Freed from what?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You asked me to set you free, and you would vanish. Free you from what?”
“From this place,” the spirit’s wispy form gestured at the surrounding caves. “From the darkness, the echoes, the emptiness.”
Raiselig looked back at their papers. “At the moment, that is all you are. There is nothing else but the darkness, the echoes, and the emptiness. You are, if I may be loose with my language, ‘a spirit in the caves.’ If you are removed…” Raiselig ended with a gentle shrug.
The spirit looked at Calchona, then back at Raiselig. “But isn’t there somewhere else for me? Somewhere lost souls go?”
“It will be a long process,” Raiselig said. “Painful, destructive, and at the end of it you may decide you made a mistake in even trying. Are you certain you wish to leave?”
The spirit faded. For a moment, the only sound was the dripping of water and the ebb and flow of the wind. Raiselig could feel the angry eyes of Calchona on their neck.
“I cannot be like this anymore. I thought, after so many years, that I was used to it. Calluses had formed, and all the pain would slowly fade over time. I was wrong. After so long, it has become so much worse. Nerve endings like lightning. I thought it would get easier, but it doesn’t. It’s getting worse, and I don’t know how to stop it.”
Raiselig took a deep breath.
They didn’t speak as they traveled from the caves, back to the Horned Serpent. They shared not a single word nor look as Raiselig took their place at the bar again, and Calchona returned behind the counter.
The bowls of grain and water were still there.
They barely had time to set their hat on the counter next to them, when a glass of dark liquid was set in front of them.
“What is this?”
Calchona shrugged, and began washing the bar glasses that filled the sink.
Raiselig watched her work for several minutes before pulling the glass closer.
“I’m a damn fool.”
Raiselig looked up. A single tear had become trapped in her fleece, curling around and struggling to fall.
“I have never thought that.”
“You’re a damn fool, too.”
“I have often thought that,” Raiselig took a deep sniff of the glass. It was faint, but there was just a hint…
“I shouldn’t have done this,” she said, brushing her eyes with thick black nails. “I should have just asked you. I should have respected you —”
“You respected me as a Scrivener,” Raiselig said, letting the liquid play about the glass like a tiny whirlpool. “Which is what I am. You have not disrespected me in any way.”
At last, she looked up. “You couldn’t have said no.”
“That is correct enough,” Raiselig said. “Not without either legal justification or significant repercussions, at the least.”
“I used you. Chained you like a servant.” She wiped her deep brown eyes again. “Like you’re a tool and not my friend.”
Raiselig sighed, leaning forward. “I am a tool, to be hired and used as any other official. If I weren’t, your string would have done little more than ash the counter.”
Calchona glared at Raiselig with fire in her eyes. “I wish you wouldn’t talk about yourself like that.”
Raiselig shrugged. “I don’t have the privilege of being able to forget or ignore who and what I am. Every day reminds me.” They glanced at the counter where the bowls sat. “Every job.”
“I wanted to be different. I wanted to be the one person who saw you as more than your job.”
“Do you?” Raiselig asked. “See me as more than a Scrivener?”
She leaned her head back, eyes glinting in the dim light. After a moment, she looked back. “I wanted you to see me.”
Raiselig slowly let the liquid brush against their lips. It was so faint…
“A single penny?” they asked.
Calchona nodded. For a moment they stared at each other. Then: “Things are different.”
“They always are,” Raiselig nodded.
“Not just me,” Calchona continued, “but for you as well. You would have chided me, before. You would have told me you had no time for me. Your job was too important.”
Raiselig thought for a moment. “I suppose I would have.”
Calchona leaned forward over the counter. “You’ve changed.”
Raiselig leaned back in their seat. “Perhaps I have.”
“Do you know when?”
“The first mystery,” Raiselig shook their head. “The frog said good night to the river, and woke up to ice.”
“What?”
Raiselig fingered the glass and took a deep breath. “It has been a long time, you’ll forgive me if I tell it wrongly.”
Once upon a time, a frog loved a river, and said goodnight to it every night before waking up in the morning to frolic in its currents. Then one winter, it said goodnight and fell asleep as always, only to wake up and find a frozen river. This so upset the frog, that it sobbed and sobbed for half the winter long. At last it cried itself to sleep, and woke up to the babbling brook, for it had slept the second half of the winter. It frolicked and played all spring and summer and fall, delighted that the river had returned, until winter fell once more. Again the frog slept, and then the frog woke, and the river was ice once more.
This time, however, the frog knew that the river would return, and so waited patiently for the ice to melt. It tried to stay awake, but so long did it watch the river, that its eyelids drooped and it fell asleep. When it woke again, the river ran freely.
“That’s enough of that,” the frog said. “I will not let my river turn to ice and back again without company.” So when winter came again, it stayed awake so it could watch the river turn from water to ice.
So it watched, and with every hour it dipped its toe into the water. “No,” it said at first, “it is not ice, but a cold river.” Again it tried: “No, it is not ice, but a river with ice in it.” It kept dipping its toe again and again, until morning when the river was frozen over. The poor frog was perplexed, because though it had watched all night, and not slept once, it could not say when was the moment that the river had changed from water to ice.
Calchona nodded. “In my old village it was a story about a fox and when dusk becomes night. ‘It could be darker,’ the poor fox said. I used to tell that story to my children.”
Raiselig fingered their glass. They had heard the catch in her throat. “I don’t know what to say, here,” they said at last. “I want to ask a question, but it might be the wrong question to ask.”
“No,” Calchona said. “I don’t want to talk about them.”
Raiselig nodded. “Thank you.”
“Things will never be the same as they were.”
“Or are, I suspect.”
“Do you at least know what has changed?”
“Such a question! I’m sure you would know far better than I.”
“Are you okay?”
Raiselig sighed. “I don’t know what that means. I am alive. I find joy and sadness in my life, as all must. The Law keeps me busy, gives me purpose. I keep moving forward.”
“Are you okay?”
“No.” Raiselig brushed their hand through Calchona’s thick hair. “I think, in the end, whatever else those words mean, I am not.”