33. Reminisciary
Reminisciary
M ila was exhausted the following day. She also found herself uncharacteristically emotional, as though her revelations of the previous evening had broken something within her.
Culis, watched her with concern in his eyes, but he didn’t pester her with questions, for which she was grateful. Instead, he took care of her in his own quiet way, ensuring that her glass never ran dry and that her seat in the next tavern was not facing into the glare of the sun while he conducted his daily business. The quiet comfort of his attention was very welcome.
That evening, when the last negotiation finished, rather than retiring to their cabins at The Drunken Sailor, he led her out into the dark street and the hot evening air.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“It’s been a long couple of weeks. All work, no play. I figure a break in the usual routine might be just what we both need. Trust me.” He added the last in response to her sceptical gaze .
They made their way down a number of well-lit streets and into Billiard, the education quarter of the city. Here, the buildings on either side of the street were tiny, white terraces that were used as sharehouses for students at the university. They stood in varying stages of neglect, having been rented out over decades by hordes of young men and women who were more preoccupied with their studies than household husbandry.
However, despite the unkempt appearance of the streets, Mila did not feel at risk there. The energy of this area was akin to what she felt in the Highlands. One of community. Perhaps because students were often poor, and good relationships with one’s neighbours was a legitimate form of currency here.
They stopped at a corner to buy a small, student dinner, which consisted only of a thick sausage and a slice of doughy bread. It was simple, but delicious, and Mila used the bread to mop up every drop of hot grease that dripped from the meat as she ate. They were passed by crowds of drunken university students, who sought revelry in whatever ways they could within the confines of the law.
When the next wave of students threatened to separate them, Culis took her hand in his. It was warm and firm, with callouses along its ridges, both from ship ropes and frequent use of a pen. It was comforting that he’d reached for her to keep her safe and close in the crowd, and she was also overjoyed at the opportunity to read him again.
His energy tonight was as complicated as she’d expected it to be. He was feeling wary and cautious in their current surroundings, but also…jealousy? Something to do with the youth and exuberance of the students perhaps? Their zest for new experiences that Culis had long since grown bored of ?
He was also still feeling protective of her. Interesting. It had certainly affected him to see her so distressed last night, and he’d been affected by her story.
When they finally arrived at the tavern Culis had been steering them towards, Mila couldn’t see what was so different about it besides the fact that there seemed to be large crowds in front of it, and relatively few people actually inside.
Culis pushed through the line of people waiting, dragging Mila along behind him. A few people voiced their protestation, but most seemed to recognise him and let him pass without issue.
Inside, the tavern was drab, made up of just a few plain wooden tables and peeling wallpaper. An old man in the corner played a piano that was in sore need of a tune, or a new player. There were very few people actually sitting and drinking, and those who were seemed far older than the crowd outside, most sitting alone, large red noses hanging over warm mugs full of sour beer.
“Why are we here?” She turned to Culis, puzzled.
“I asked you to trust me,” he said with a grin, clearly enjoying her confusion. “I ask it of you still.”
“Trust is earned,” she replied.
Culis let out a long-suffering sigh. “You’re a hard taskmaster, little demon. Lord knows why I endeavour to earn it from you. But I do.”
“Do you?” she challenged, genuinely surprised.
“Of course,” he replied, equally surprised by her question. “I’m a little hurt that isn’t obvious by now.”
She wished she was still holding his hand to determine whether he was telling the truth or not. Regardless, she followed him out of the main room and down a staircase into a dingy-looking bathroom.
It stank.
“Culis…” she warned .
“Trust,” was all he replied with a sly smile, and then gestured that she should enter a tiny, dirty stall on her left.
“What?”
“Please.”
She glared at him but noted the rarity of his use of that word.
She took a deep breath and went into the appalling stall. Culis followed and closed the door behind them. It was a tiny space, and in an effort to avoid standing too close to the filthy latrine behind her, she pressed into his chest. He casually wrapped an arm around her shoulders as he leaned forward and pulled down on a small rusty lever behind her head.
His energy was far simpler now. Pure joy .
On the other side of the door, Mila heard a heavy grinding noise. She would have jumped if she hadn’t been in his tight embrace, but she found it surprisingly grounding to be so close to him, especially with him feeling so happy. It was catching. Impossible to be frightened.
When the grinding noise stopped, Culis unlatched the door and walked out of the stall, tugging Mila behind him.
Incredibly, the dingy bathroom was gone, and in its place was a far cleaner, but still considerably bare, stone room. This room was occupied by a tall man, who looked like security, and a plump, jolly woman, who appeared in her late sixties and stood behind a table that had a book and a box on it.
“Master Christopher!” she exclaimed when she saw them. “How wonderful to have you in our fine establishment once again.”
“Alita.” He greeted her with a kiss to the cheeks. “You know the pleasure is all mine.”
He introduced Mila, and Alita held out the book. “You’ll both need to sign in.”
Mila copied Culis as he placed his thumb onto an ink pad and pressed the black thumbprint beside his name in the book.
“It’s insurance,” Alita said in response to Mila’s silent question. “If I find out that anyone from tonight gets reported, then this page of the book gets handed in, and everyone gets reported. One in, all in.”
“This is Reminisciary,” Culis explained. “A club you can only find if you know where it is, and a place where anyone can come and commit the Heretical Behaviours without fear of arrest and punishment. We wear these to stay anonymous inside.” He handed her a fox mask and took a dark ram skull mask for himself. “But Alita here knows who everyone is, and what night they attended through the fingerprinting system. It helps to deter anyone who feels inclined to report anything that goes on inside to the Church.”
“That’s clever.” Mila tied the mask in place and looked up at Culis, who had just placed his own.
“What do you think?” He gestured to the awful, dark mask that came complete with ram horns whirling out the side. “Now I have horns just like you!”
“Excuse me!” Mila was caught between laughter and indignation. “My horns are nothing like those monstrosities.”
“No, to be fair, they’re quite dainty. More like antlers than horns.”
“ Antlers? ” She was outraged.
“Maybe that’s how we change the public perception of demons,” he continued to tease as he hustled her into the club, brushing aside layers of thick curtains. She heard faint music ahead. “Stop referring to them as horns and just tell everyone you’re as sweet and innocent as a cute little woodland deer.”
Mila opened her mouth to protest, but her words were washed away by the wall of music and energy that hit them when they pushed through the final thick curtain .
Dancing.
People were dancing .
Impossible.
She still remembered the scolding and sermon she’d received as a child from an acolyte of Prious when she’d been caught skipping with joy along the path home.
As a continued act of contrition for our blasphemous uprising against the Lord our God-King Midas, it is expressly forbidden to dance or frolic with joy in a public setting. All citizens of Artor – yes, Mila, even you – must, at all times, remain demure and restrained, weighed down with the heavy yoke of knowledge that our mundane and fallible eyes did not recognise the Master of our Souls when he emerged from the sea. It was an act of ignorance that will take the contrition of many generations before we may be forgiven.
Acts of dancing, revelry, festivals or celebrations were listed as the Second Heretical Behaviour, which, especially for those to whom the order was important, made the act of public dancing even more sacrilegious than other acts such as blaspheming, or harbouring a heretic.
And yet.
Time stood still as Mila surveyed the scene before her. The entire tavern floor was filled with the sweaty press of half-naked bodies, humans masked as animals, dancing decadently in sheer jubilation to a pounding drum beat and ecstatic duelling fiddles.
To the sides, the room was adorned with plush booths stuffed full of people talking animatedly, gesticulating wildly. Above them on the walls, and from the ceiling, hung all manner of idols: tree gods, goat gods, harvest gods, childbirth gods. It was unlikely anyone was using this space as a place of worship to any of the assorted deities peering down, but their presence was indicator enough. This was a place that celebrated heresy .
Mila looked up at Culis, who smiled broadly when he saw her open mouth. “How does a place like this exist?”
“Who cares?” he yelled back over the din. “Come have fun!” And with that, he grabbed her hands and whirled her into the swaying and stamping crush of the dance floor.
Mila had never felt anything like it. Her body and mind were seized by the energy of those around her, and for once, she didn’t resist, losing herself utterly in it all, pulsing and pushing against the bodies around her. It was intoxicating, consuming, as though she had drunk lava and the heat of it had spread into the very fibres of her body.
A woman in a butterfly mask seized her and twirled her incessantly until she felt as though she might be sick. She stumbled when she was released and was caught up immediately in the arms of a lion man, whose muscles gleamed with sweat as he lifted her above his head. He deftly flipped her, catching her on the way down, as though she were nothing more than a rag doll.
Another man in the mask of a stag grabbed her, placed one hand around her waist, while the other caught her hand. The two of them galloped around the room, feet striking the boards in perfect time with the banging of the drums, sending sensations unlike anything Mila had ever felt before flooding through her.
Fun, she realised. This was what it meant to have fun and not feel guilty about it. This was something that had been denied and beaten out of the entire nation. No wonder pockets of rebellion like this existed. It was an intoxicating feeling, all-consuming. She felt as though she was high. She wasn’t an individual anymore; she was the room, was the music, was the dance.
And then, the dark ram skull mask appeared before her. Culis reached out and drew her away from her partner, claiming her as his own, and they danced a different dance. Less vigorous, but no less energetic.
He caught her up with a hand behind her head, fingers tangling into her hair. His other hand found her waist, drawing her close, coaxing her to lean back into a dip as she’d seen other couples doing. She submitted, trusting him to catch her, and he did, holding her there for a moment, staring into her eyes.
Mila felt her stomach clench as she lay in his arms and stared back. That bubble of heat she’d felt the previous night now stoked, a new kind of fire awakened in her belly, something she hadn’t felt since Cari. She felt it rise in him too – heat, a need to claim, to touch.
He hauled her back onto her feet abruptly, and together, they stood still amongst the swirling bodies. His eyes never left hers as he ran his hands over her arms, her neck, her jaw. His touch felt hot.
For a moment, the dark mask was so close to hers that she could feel the heat of his breath against her cheek, her lips. She wondered if he would kiss her – desperately hoped that he would – and then the music changed to an upbeat gypsy tune, and a fat, raucous woman and her tiny partner began to waltz violently around the room. They bumped heavily into Culis and Mila, apologising profusely, and though Culis’s touch still seared as he reached out to steady Mila, the moment between them was gone.
He stepped back from her with a rueful grin, then took her hands and led her back into a dance. Mila twirled in his arms, submitting to his silent direction and the way he urged her body to whirl this way and that, but always, always caught up in his gaze whenever she returned to centre.
A shout behind them caused Culis to tear his eyes away from hers and peer towards the commotion. When he identified what it was, he looked back at Mila and mouthed over the music, “Come. ”
She followed him through the dancing bodies, past the crush of people standing amongst the booths, towards one booth in particular that was far more crowded than the others. A man and a woman sat in the middle, and they were talking animatedly, deliberately trying to draw more people over.
“The time is coming to push back! The Church is corrupt and power hungry.”
“But it’s Midas’s word,” a voice from the crowd called out. “We know what happens to us if we disobey.”
“That’s just the point,” the woman said with a hiss of excitement. “It is Midas’s word. And yet the Church picks and chooses how they implement it with astounding irregularity. My mother was there, at the Village of Truth. She knows what was said to us by the God-King, that all laws are to be observed in equal measure, and any who disobeys them should be sacrificed. We heard it again from the princess’s own mouth just a few weeks ago.”
Something about the name of the village rang a bell in Mila’s head, but she couldn’t place how she knew it. It also struck her as very odd that this type of discussion was happening in a place that was a literal den of iniquity. But perhaps it really was the only safe place for such speech.
“Abbott and the Church interpret the rules for themselves. The God-King’s forgiveness for our nation will never be earned in this way.”
Behind Mila, someone in a cat mask was running around and throwing Golden Sand up into the air as though it was glitter, twirling around beneath it as it showered down upon them. Whether it was actually Midas’s sand or some kind of replica Mila didn’t know, but the implication was obvious, and it made the hypocrisy of the conversation occurring to the other side of her even more pronounced .
She looked over at Culis to see if he was still eager to listen, or if he was ready to return to the dance floor. She’d had enough of religion to last a lifetime and was damned if she’d let it intrude into this night and ruin it for her.
Culis still seemed interested in the conversation but read the expression in her eyes and, with a nod, retreated and drew her back to the dancing.
Eventually, as all good things do, it had to end.
They danced until the early hours of morning, until Mila thought her feet would fall off, and even then, Culis did not hurry her but danced with her until she finally surrendered to the demands of her body to rest. When she finally gave the nod, he led her towards a back door that would lead them out onto the streets. There, they handed back their masks to Alita, who looked Mila over and smiled, glancing at the horns that Mila had not even realised were extended.
She swiftly withdrew them, embarrassed that she’d sought out the pleasure in the room so obviously.
“It’s nice to have you here, dear,” Alita said kindly. “My old neighbours, Tina and Creo, were ikarei. They were good neighbours. Always happy to look after my young Ferris whenever I needed to travel.”
“You know about the ikarei?” Culis asked incredulously.
“Of course,” Alita said with a gesture towards Mila. “But it’s been a while since I’ve seen one in this place. It’s a nice reminder for those of us who remember those times, to ensure they are not forgotten.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed Mila’s sweaty forehead. “Thank you for coming.”
Mila felt tears prick in the corners of her eyes. “Thank you,” she replied, her voice thick with emotion.
Culis looked down at her with a newfound intensity and she reached out to grasp his arm, unafraid now to touch him. It was a mixed feeling of awe and shame that he felt as he processed Alita’s words.
Mila withdrew her hand. “Time to leave,” she said, and he nodded, following her out the door.
By the time they finally returned to their inn, the sun was already poking its head over the nearby horizon, and Culis informed her that the carriage to take them home would be arriving in an hour. So, instead of heading to bed, they went to the dining room and ate a greasy breakfast together while they waited.
Mila fell asleep in the carriage almost as soon as she sat down and woke only when it pulled up to the manor.
Groggy and disoriented, she muttered a farewell to Culis and stumbled with relief back to the comfort of her small, cosy room. Up until now, she hadn’t realised how much the simple space had come to represent home, and other than Frank Culis’s unexpected appearance all those weeks ago, no one had ever intruded into it. It was so good to come back to her own space and be with her own thoughts after weeks on the road, especially after the previous evening.
She snuggled into her own bed and stretched her feet out in it with joy, but before she fell asleep again, her last clear emotion was a deep, aching loneliness.
It felt strange and empty to be in a room that did not have Culis asleep in a bed on the other side of it.