Songs of the Dying Earth

Cugel tried to lift himself using an arm to lever himself up but failed. “A moment, first. I think my time beneath the earth is longer than I supposed.” He lifted his head towards the sky. “Is it night or has the sun cast its last shadow on the dying earth?”

Dringo looked heavenward also. “I think it is night only. We have twilight enough to dimly see each other and the ground beneath us, but we will know in a few hours.”

Cugel laughed. “Just so!” He squinted at Dringo. “Are you a cruel joke played on me by Iucounu? You appear to be a replica of me, though not so dashing.” Without waiting for an answer, he slowly turned on his side and rolled to a crouch, then rose up to a standing position. “Well, if you are a demon sent to mimic me and raise false hope, at least lead me to some water before you inter me again.”

Dringo answered, “I assure you I am of flesh and blood. But you are astute in suspecting the malicious frolic of Iucounu. More than you can imagine, Cugel.”

“You know me by name! More reason to suspect a foul hand at play.”

Dringo ignored the comment and turned to face the downward slope of the hillock upon which they had found themselves expelled. “Come, let us seek some water. We have much to talk about.”

They stumbled down the small hill in the darkness. Twice Cugel stopped and sat, the second time saying, “I will wait here while you search. You seem more sprightly than I. You may even find a suitable container for returning the refreshment, thus eliminating the need for both of us to traverse these difficult slopes.” Dringo disregarded Cugel’s complaints and continued on. The terrain kept leading lower to eventually funnel them into a line of fragrant Myrhadian trees that flanked a small arroyo from which they could hear the gurgle of a brook. Both of them cupped hand after hand of the sweet water until their stomachs were distended gourds.

They sat together on a broad, flat rock above the water line.

Cugel, in a much improved humor, smiled and said to Dringo, “Your resemblance to my own is remarkable. Who are you, if not a minion of Iucounu?”

Dringo shook his head at Cugel’s opacity. “You can’t fathom another possibility?”

Cugel sat mutely with thin, pursed lips.

Dringo realized that his impatience with his father was more a matter of anxiety than frustration. “I am your son!” he blurted.

He watched Cugel’s face closely for a reaction. It was not what he expected.

Cugel laughed uncontrollably. “That is an impossibility. You are too close to my own age. Iucounu, show yourself. Your trickery lacks coherency.” He leaned forward to study Dringo’s features. Suddenly, he raged: “Clarity has reasserted itself. Iucounu, you have robbed me of more years than I ever imagined! The Spell of Forlorn Encystment has maddened me! I thought myself buried a year or perhaps two, but this? It is too much. The Law of Equipoise has been tilted to an extreme that demands equally severe punition.”

Finally he calmed. He looked again towards Dringo. “So I have a son. Who is your mother? Perhaps you can refresh my memory?”

“My mother’s name was Ammadine. Sadly, she is gone now.”

Cugel shook is head. “No, I don’t remember. However, it is an appealing name. Was she pretty?”

“She was one of the Seventeen Virgins of Symnathis. They are chosen for their beauty and purity, and their arrival at the Grand Pageant is the signal event of the gala. The caravan that was to deliver the young virgins was one year guarded by a young man calling himself Cugel the Clever. Only two arrived as maidens. My mother was not one of them.”

A smile or a smirk crossed Cugel’s face. Dringo couldn’t tell in the faint light. “Yes, I remember. A misunderstanding of responsibility. I was not given an opportunity to enlighten the Grand Thearch. The caravan arrived without incident, and I would rate my conduct at a value well above the remuneration agreed upon, which I might add was never forthcoming.” He paused and reflected. “Was your mother light of hair with amber-grey eyes?”

Dringo answered, “No.”

“Ahh. Was she short with dark hair and breasts that swelled—”

“My mother,” Dringo interrupted, “was a young girl who lost her high station and gave birth to a bastard son who grew up without a father…” His voice faltered.

Cugel nodded. “This I regret. You should consider that during this time Iucounu was exacting harsh punishments upon me for motives both unreasonable in their pettiness, and lack of proportionality, considering the absence of ill will on my part.” His tone lost its flippancy. “I had thought myself finally free of Iucounu, but he found a way to return from his dissolution. Whether from the Overworld, the Underworld or the Demon-world, I know not. But that fact remains. And his revenge was the Spell of Forlorn Encystment.”

Dringo couldn’t help but look at his father somewhat differently, “I too, know first-hand the brutality of Iucounu, father.”

Cugel relaxed back on the rock. “Tell me your story.”