- MISTER THESS, RIVIELLOTT, GODIAN -

I recently learned that a river flowing from the south to the north is not a common thing. On the contrary, it is apparently considered something of a rarity in our world. One wouldn’t know it living in Pelagia. I believe both our main rivers, Kilir and Riviel, flow in such a manner.

Nevertheless, it’s one more reason that makes Riviel such a special river. Because he is special. His beauty can greatly affect those who choose to call him home. Natives or foreigners. The story of the two cabins will, hopefully, explain what I mean much more clearly.

Down south, near the very end of our town, where the main road takes a turn westwards, one could find a small, sloppy, snake-like path, that lead to the river. It wasn’t more than five-six hundred meters from the entrance of the town, and ended in one of its most beautiful parts, devoid of the stench of pig-blood and the traffic of riverboats that plagued the northern parts of Riviella proper. The river down there was a bit wider, its calm waters running crystal clear on the smooth, shinny, black pebbles. The maple trees, unrivalled in the area, blooming every spring and whispering in the summer wind, created a heavy, perfect shade. The shore, with its tiny, little, white pebbles, was begging you to walk on it.

Almost all of the numerous Belirs our Riviella had over the years would, at some point, propose to build a proper, paved road over the path. This would reclassify it in the town’s archives as an official branch of the main road, instead of the random passage through the forest it was until then. Instead of an exotic, difficult to reach piece of tranquillity, it would become an accessible rest stop connected to Riviella’s main artery. A place for someone to take a walk, or sit down and clear their mind.

But our Belirs would always, sooner or later, get distracted by something more pressing and important. It might be reforming their tax policy, or supervising the local festivals, or making various renovations to their estate. Their attention would be firmly shifted and they’d forget all about the little road. And people would usually get very angry, and it was not uncommon to see piles of mud and dung being cleaned from the outer walls of the Belir’s house every morning during those days.

All these I say, because I truly believe one has to comprehend the importance this little project, so irrelevant to our various Belirs, had for the people of Riviella. They really wanted this road.

The river, they felt, was closer to them, to their hearts, than anything else in the area. Riviel was connected with both, the town and its people. Since they were kids they’d go there, escaping their daily work or school. That’s where they smoked for the first, with little pipes they’d carve out of reeds. And later, as grownups, they’d go there to get away from the eyes and ears of their family and the neighbours. Many Riviellotts had met their better half on that shore, and would later take their own kids to walk down its pebbles. And finally, as they got older and wiser, they’d carefully get down the shore with their grandchildren and the whole rest of the family.

They’d spend the whole day there, and when night came, they’d reluctantly begin the struggle of heading back up to town. And as they were navigating through the bushes and slippery rocks, all of them could agree on one thing. A paved road was necessary, and had to be built immediately. And every time the old Belir died, or was recalled, and a new Belir was appointed from the Emperor at Dolvet, they’d all put their hopes on him, to make their dream a reality.

But out of all of them, more, much more than anyone else, it was mister Thess that would hope the most.

Mister Thess, Riviellott, Godian. And a proud one at that, with great admiration for Dolvet, and little love for his town’s Sigod. Also known as the “wattle”, because of his long, thin structure, he was the owner of one out of the two cabins on the riverbank. His job? To sell food and drinks to the strollers. He had that cabin almost forty years now.

Forty years now, mister Thess, the wattle, patiently waited for that great road to finally be paved. For the people to be able to come down the riverside with ease and comfort.

“Build it and they will come!” he’d always say. All the people, especially during the festivals and holidays. And he would then look at the river and imagine what it would be like.

What it would be for him to finally get rich from his little cabin? To be able to live the final years of his life without worries? For him, the matter of building the road was personal. Even more, it was the biggest dream of his poor, little life. A holy tree that, should he had it, would eventually bear fruit. There lied the well-being of his wife and his little girls. The well-being of his life. Every time a new Belir would come to Riviella, he was happy. He’d button up his coat, and go out at the shore, taking out his little iron tables, and his small wooden chairs, only to put them back inside the cabin later, at night. Every time, with new hope and lots of patience, he kept on waiting for the famed road.

In the meantime, his tables remained rusty and unpainted. The thin wood of the chairs was slowly being eaten by time. Many of them were now broken. The cabin’s roof, with its thin, lead tiles, would start rattling with even a slight breeze. He didn’t have any books, or cards, or dice to pass the time. No barrels of wine or ale or other liqueurs either. Just some bottles of second-class beer, and even of them, there weren’t many.

Every day he’d buy some picarels and small trouts from the Planks and fry them inside his little cabin, patiently waiting for that great day. When he’d finally paint the tables, and get new chairs, and repair the roof, and get proper drinks and a thousand other things. Then he’d fix everything up.

Until that day however, he would not change a thing.

It didn’t matter. People would always come to the shore, no matter what. And they would sit at his tables, no matter their colour. Even if he actually had the money to begin renovating the cabin tomorrow, he still wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t spend a demi until they made him the road. It was the only change he so desperately wanted. Because, truth be told, mister Thess was doing not really like changes. Or innovations. Or dangerous experiments. He was a sound, practical man, and put great value in the assurance of stability.

He was really proud that, despite his lack of wealth, he was considered by almost everyone as a man of character and dignity. With his own little house near the Stoas –a necessity. His three children and faithful wife -indispensable. His regular donations he made to Riviel’s Temple – very much welcomed.

A proper and respected member of our town he was. One of the pillars of our society, of our decency and order. So his little cabin, by extension, was also reserved for other proper and respected members of our town, like him.

Every year, from early fall until the end of winter, he had it locked up. Closed. During that time, he’d sit and operate a small, dusty warehouse with his wife. From the very first days of spring however, he would stick his out of the window. The moment the sky became slightly clearer, the air a bit warmer, and the fog less dense, he was off. For the rest of spring and during the summer, his wife would hold the old warehouse. One could find him then walking in and out the Stoas, talking to friends and merchants, and sampling their products. On most days, his customers were so few, he would only head down the river in the afternoons. During festivities and holidays however, he’d be in his cabin all day, sometimes until well into the night. Then, he’d politely turn the customers away, and head back to Riviella and a nice, long sleep.

The other cabin, the second one, was open every day. No matter the season, no matter the weather. It also served some cheap blonde and red wine alongside the beer, so the various drunks of Riviella would often pay a visit. Next to them, one could usually find local hunters and mountaineers, as well as travellers, taking a break before heading towards the Long Bridge. During the winter, and more precisely during the winter nights, that cabin had kind of a bad reputation, and those passing by usually avoided it. The people of our town, summer people, always preferred the tables of mister Thess, and would only sit there out of necessity, if the seats in front of his cabin were full.

Besides, the man operating the second cabin wasn’t a proper and reputable man. A man of our town, like mister Thess. He wasn’t even a mister. He was an old man. Old-man Sparrow, or Old Sparrow, or simply Sparrow.

Sparrow, Guttportott. We never learned the path of his Faith. But we suspected he was from Guttport, even before he told us. Of course we did. Where else in Pelagia do people have such weird names? Although, they are kind of beautiful I guess, in their own way…

Peculiar, one could call old-man Sparrow. He would not only operate the cabin, but also sleep and live in it. And wouldn’t go “uptown” unless he wanted to purchase something very specific. A foreigner, completely unknown, and completely alone. Friendships, arrangements, agreements, disagreements, good and bad blood, he never had any of these with anyone. Every morning he’d take his little fishing net and head further up the river, where one could find the big trouts and the river crabs. He would sit on the large rocks, overlooking the waterfall. Sometimes he’d forget himself there.

Old Sparrow never seemed to care much about anything, not even his business. To me, it seemed more like he wanted to hide, down there in the river. To be lost and forgotten by everyone. To make a home, rather than actually run the cabin. Like a fox digging its hole.

Somebody asked him once if he got scared at nights, being an old man alone down the empty shore. Sparrow laughed it off and said he was not afraid of thieves, because he was poor, and was not afraid of the riverspirits, because his soul was clear.

Most people in our town believed in spirits. Unseen by the eye, they were often flowing down the Riviel at night. Quick and divine, they’d possess those wandering alone by the water. Once inside one’s mind, they’d make them relive every crime, every injustice they’d ever committed, and every one they were ever going to commit. The spirits would grab the mind and crush it, driving the person into insanity, making them scream. Until eventually, they would jump into river. Desperate to get rid of the spirits. Of the voices. To drown them, alongside their guilt.

The priests at the temple of Riviel said these beliefs were little more than local heresy. The godian books of the Faith were pretty clear on the matter. And they weren’t wrong, but it made little difference. The people of Riviella believed in riverspirits. Godian, Sigodian, Nassaryott, it didn’t matter.

It was common belief.

(In fact, the only man ever said to have been possessed by a riverspirit and lived, was a Nassaryott, Setha Kabi. He keeps quiet about the matter however, and never tells anyone what he saw.)

Even mister Thess believed they existed. Old Sparrow probably did so as well. But he never seemed too worried about them. He was clean. And if anyone asked about his earnings, he’d respond that he made next to nothing. Just enough so he could pay the Belir the yearly rent for the cabin, and do some minor repairs so the roof wouldn’t fall on his head. He’d also give some to the little kids that would come near his cabin every winter, begging for food.

“It’s okay, let’em kids have it” he’d always say. Quietly smiling, like he was ashamed. He called all people kids, no matter their age.

For him, it was enough that he had found this quiet, beautiful place, with the small cabin, so he wouldn’t tire himself working during his later years. Nothing would satisfy him more than staying right there, fishing, cooking, and serving drinks. Until his final day. Until his eyes would close forever. Anything more, he didn’t want.

The drunks would tease him from time to time during the evenings, when all other customers had gone.

“Come on Sparrow! It’s just us, you know us…”

“Come here, sit… Now tell us, how many? … How many did you kill?”

“Don’t worry, we’re no rats!”

Then he’d sit by their side, pour himself a drink, and laugh. Again, quietly, like he was ashamed.

And during those moments, another world would fill his mind, covering the cabin and its drunk patrons. Another place, also quiet, and so beautiful...