Napalm Riot

Chapter 1-Opening Legend

The teahouse at village row’s end was anything but what its appellation mistook it for. What once were delicate features of wrought iron rosebuds laced along the exterior lining of the walls is now disfigured beyond recognition. Dainty little eccentricities throughout became a mask of grime and rust. It once housed the village matchmaker, but after an incident a few years back involving the town having to run the old matron out, another never came to take her place. Soon after years of neglect, it was altogether forgotten from the village’s memory.

Time went by and sometime around the Seventy times Seven, and the First of the Seventy-First wars, the doors stood open again. The transition was seamless. What once was forgotten became remembered as something new; more of a manifestation of the times in a bizarre way, reflecting death and fear; a new kind of place inspiring vignettes of scared men huddled in one corner with weapons to keep the peace at night.

The new proprietor heralded in the times as well with the advent of his presence. Like the new dark ages, no one knew from whence he came. Story has it that he was a deserter from the wars; a flagrant disobedient wretch who cared more for fattening his own pockets and the empty space his mouth needs fill. Others believe he was the descendant of the last matchmaker, back to claim what his forefathers or mothers once owned. He was not a bother though. All around, each person wanted to experience their own sense of comfort, so no one could blame anybody else for seeking the same. The place itself became a match for men with no homes and souls. And to any wandering specter curious enough to enter its gates, one should expect more rough environs than what any teahouse sign would entail.

“Excuse me sir, I was wondering if you can help me a bit with directions. The rain seems to have washed out all visible signs in the northeast corridor. Uh, sir? excuse me?”

“That’s not how ya get his attention. This is whatcha ya do,” said a hirsute man with such a sinister crackly voice that any person would think he was there more to hinder than help. But as he threw a large gold coin down the counter to bounce off the safe box at the end of it, the tinkling noise of metal meeting metal drew the barman’s attention behind the counter and a newly filled mug of mead was tossed in his direction. It was the oddest spectacle the stranger saw, but who was he to defy set customs.

Now for passersby taking note of the stranger’s presence, each could tell from his appearance that he was a novice; a spindly creature barely weaned from his mother’s teat, knowing naught of how to assert his presence in this world. So it wasn’t a surprise to any to see the stranger toss his coins so gently as to gain no distance. “Throw’em harder or get closer,” urged his surrogate helpmate as the rest of the surrounding folks enjoyed the scene humorously. Tired of being heckled and jeered at, the stranger finally gathered all his strength to toss his last piece down the panel and instead of hitting the safe box, he walloped the barman good on the head. Uproarious laughter rang out, but abruptly ceased as each patron saw the barman turn round for the first time with such an ugly gleam of vengeance narrowed on the stranger, each person never pitied another person more than the way crowd pitied that stranger there.

Knowing the stranger was left for dead and knowing there’s no more fun to be had, the rest of the crowd went back to their drinking. Only one man graciously stepped forward to intervene, stating in a calm clear voice, “He’s with me, Inoch.” And to dilute the situation completely our sacrificing warrior placed a bag of coins in front of the barman whereby satisfying any crimes that might’ve been committed and business returned as usual.

“Was he really going to hurt me?” asked the stranger in a weak voice.

“You were dead those last few minutes; I just stepped in and bought back your life,” said our sacrificing warrior as he walked back to his table, cutting off any need for thanks or sweet praise.

“He’s following me now, isn’t he?” asked our warrior to his seated mates.

“Like a newborn pup.”

Our warrior turned round to the stranger and said curtly, “Sit down, I’ll lead you to wherever you’re going once the rain lets up.”

“But aren’t you supposed to travel down to South County to see your father?” interrupted another of his drinking mates.

“Awww, yes. Me, being the enviable son of my father’s loins and all, I’ll quickly trek my way out there to lie at his feet.” responded our warrior sarcastically. “He needs another whipping-boy. That, I can do without for another decade.”

“There was a time when inheritance was pride and the future carried strongly on the backs of the young while fathers watched on regally,” spouted an older man seated at the table. It looks like he was born there and grew to old age in the exact same spot for centuries and maybe for even more to come. It was a motley mix of men seated round. Our warrior being the most distinguished from the lot of them. If a movie were to be made years later in the centuries when movies could be made, a cute, chiseled grizzly actor like Christian Bale would play him. But the narrator digresses. These men were made of dirt; transfixed and formed to live by it and in it.

“True,” said our warrior, “but that was when inheritance consisted of riches more full of love and goodness, not blood and death. We all live in a different time now Hinx; where to each his own carries the sword to victory.”

“Can one man really be victorious while disbanded from his blood?”

“We live in a time where we have to run the risk of losing and dying alone. It’s a displaced world, Hinx. And, as long as there’s still breath and life in me, I consider it victory.”

“It doesn’t have to be this way. If someone would just bring the princess home, we’ll no longer be displaced children.”

Groans reverberated throughout the table as Hinx made mention of this.

“Princess?” The little squeak from the stranger brought the table current again. There was a ten second delay in processing his presence, but each finally remembered who he was.

“Yes. Hinx’ princess that has been lost for centuries and the sole cause of our world’s current discontent,” droned one of the seated men in a manner filled with more skepticism and ribaldry than necessary. To the rest of the men, Hinx’ princess was a joke, a legend, a lore, but to Hinx, she was his only salvation. Our warrior knew a loud raucous would eventually brew among the men. He had enough for one night, so to quell the situation he interrupted and humored the stranger with a quick breakdown of the story, adding no biased tone or embellishment whatsoever to the tale.

“Legend has it she was kidnapped one day by her relatives and held for ransom. Her father who was a rich warmonger couldn’t risk the chance of losing his seat in power to his relatives, so he takes his own life and curses everyone and everything for stealing what was his and conjured a spell to protect his daughter; the only way for the curse to be lifted was for his daughter to find her way home and keep his bloodline. She never did and according to Hinx, is still out there trying to find her way home or waiting to be found and if one day found, our world will be in rainbows again.”

And just as quickly as our warrior ends his tale, another brash mate re-kindles Hinx’ ribbing and belittles the legend by saying, “So essentially, my inept coin tosser, the fate of the world rests on one wench with no sense of direction.” And laughter rings out again, except out of the Hinx’ corner.