Songs for Water

After leaving the centipede's valley, the next several days were pleasantly uneventful. We continued to make our way through the valleys, which grew incrementally greener and more overgrown each day; a promising sign, or so we hoped.

The most excitement we had was when Chak proclaimed that he had been sitting in the same water for long enough, and we spent most of a morning bailing out his wagon and refilling it with water from a particularly robust stream. We could hardly blame him; there had been no water sources large enough to completely refill his wagon in several months at least.

Before using the stream, we announced our intentions to the valley's spirit. The shrine in this particular valley was an eight-headed stone giraffe, carved so that it appeared to be singing harmony with itself. The trees were hung with a variety of chimes and wind-flutes that kept up a constant musical murmur in the background. Though random, they were tuned so that their semi-chaotic progressions of chords were usually pleasant.

One does not usually make direct requests of the spirit of a location. Doing anything that would require a spirit to actually provide an answer, interrupting whatever it is that spirits usually do all day, is considered rude except in serious emergencies. Instead, the accepted method is to simply announce one's intentions, in a respectful if-you-don't-mind sort of way, and wait to see if the spirit does anything to express their disapproval. In situations where one's plans require taking something, or imposing on the spirit's peace and quiet for an extended time, it's considered good manners to offer a gift.

In this case, we informed the spirit that we hoped to take a large volume of fresh water from the valley's stream for the comfort of one of our companions. We made sure to mention that we would be replacing it with a similar volume of significantly less fresh water. Though it was far less scarce in this middling region than in the Golden Desert proper, water wasn't so plentiful here that a wagonload was a trivial amount.

After a thoughtful pause, several seemingly chance gusts of wind brought the valley's flutes and chimes briefly into perfect time with each other, playing a pleasant-sounding melody (complete with three-part harmony and a handful of grace notes). We took this as a sign of the spirit's approval and went to work.

Without legs, Chak himself could do little to help with the process. Mogen lifted him out of his wagon, and while the rest of us bailed water, he clambered happily up and down the stream, preparing a lunch supplemented with various greens and herbs from the lushly overgrown banks. This division of labor seemed more than fair to everyone. (I think we would have been content to let him just sit and watch - as an amphibian, it's been difficult enough for him simply to exist in the Golden Desert - but after being trapped in his wagon for so long, with so little to occupy his time, I suspect he was eager to be useful again.)

Although not the sort to complain, Chak's excitement while he watched us work was matched only by his relief when Mogen lifted him back into the wagon and he settled into the refreshed pool inside.

"I cannot possibly describe how much better this tastes," he said, after thanking us all profusely. "Add a few decent bath herbs and a rubber duck, and I might almost feel like a civilized man again."

I hadn't realized that he could taste the water through his skin - although, since he was an amphibian, it didn't come as a total surprise. In that light, his lack of complaints about what must have been an exceptionally stale-tasting water supply were even more impressive. With the work done, we ate lunch by the stream's deepest pool, so that Chak could join us outdoors. (Though the water in his cart was much improved, he said, it still couldn't compare to an actual running stream.)

Given the spirit's apparent love of music, we concluded that a less physical offering would be appropriate thanks for their generosity. We spent the hottest part of the afternoon sitting in the breezy, instrumental shade of the valley's trees and singing.

Background orchestration was already provided by the valley's chimes and flutes, so we chose songs that fit their pleasant major key - no minor-key tragic ballads or harmonically twisted arzenroyds. We began with a couple of cheerful drinking songs from the Scalps (usually a good place to start, since they're written so that everyone can join in by the second or third chorus, regardless of their level of inebriation), and I provided a passable rendition of the Poltergeists' "Things that I Don't Know." Chak, we discovered, had a wide repertoire of the sort of dry, witty ballads that build up to some sort of terrible pun at the end.

A few songs in, Garnet made a hesitant offer to sing something, to surprised and delighted encouragement from the rest of us. For a small, soft-spoken woman, she proved to have a surprisingly deep and powerful voice; she dropped from her usual hushed tones to a beautiful lupine growl for Pitti Alfasca's "Carved out of Stone." After some discussion, she and I were surprised to find that we both knew the words and harmonies to Tara Chizely's "Perfect," and we sang it as a duet. I was delighted for the opportunity; it's one of those songs that simply cannot be sung properly with a single voice, and singing harmonies with a friend is always a pleasure.

Mogen declined to sing, saying that she had no musical inclinations or interest of any kind, and maintained her usual expression of professional disinterest through the entire afternoon. However, when Karlishek ended the impromptu concert by leading us all in a patter song from an operetta by Glibret and Snullavi, I noticed even her tapping her foot.