Karamung His Blindness

There was a day the suns may have forgotten to shine; or that was the hope, You’d think. Vor Karamung had always had godspat eyesight, so he’d been counting the days till this or its like happened. Having once gotten a tongue-reading saying contrary, and knowing seers couldn’t be trusted, Karamung plotted out the day his eyesight, the seer had promised, would return — and expected the just opposite. (That day had long since passed; seers couldn’t be trusted.)

That said, You don’t need too much more than a good pair of frills and a decent tongue to hold down a bar, so that’s just what he did. Right up until our story begins — that’s today. Allow me to set the stage: yesterday was the trough, so all the plants and people were all shriveled up; ’twas harvest season, so You could smell all the sweetest ciders and pies on the wind; and lastly, evening had rode on up, so the suns were just coming in to land. Despite this, You should still have their mingling rays spitting on Your brilles. For no matter how long Karamung spent cooped up in the bar, he couldn’t bear it if he lost track of time on top of everything else

This is why he, after he stepped out the burnt elm door of the bar, after the cool after-trough air danced over his face, after he thought he’d cleared his brilles twice over, after he licked his eyes, after he licked his eyes again, after he got tired of counting actions and just gave up, he was puzzled.

In Karamung his gaze, all seemed the undifferentiated grayness of indoors wherever he looked. Things had seemed particularly gray this morning, but he knew that ornery landlord loathed to turn up the lights around the turn of the cycles (for the usuals were most out bruming).

However, it would seem, there was a touch bit more to it than that. The first thing Karamung does when something unusual befalls him is have a nice smoke. Then he goes and bothers his next closest buddy, Ushra. Not that Ushra; this had been rather a bit before The Alchemist was more than a hatchling; the name had its share of owners then, before the Enlightened Council decided He was important enough to bind the name to clan Gären for ever.

One would think the name had some special nobility about it, for even this Ushra had a remarkable dignity about him: he had painted brilles, he had metal claws, he had full robes, and most of all, he made them all work. You could very well imagine, if someone collected the right patents, and spoke to the right matriarchs, some elder clan could claim him, say he had a drop or ten of their blood. But that’s just the image he proffered; if it were really so he wouldn’t have to.

Suffer it to say this Ushra had money. He was a banker; high enough to live a life, but not so high he couldn’t be seen with our Karamung now and again. (To be completely honest, the course of how these two come to be friends is a story; but You’d need to get them both drunk to hear it.)

Karamung greeted his friend at his work with, “Ahoy! Is The Plan just about underway?”

“Verily,” was this Ushra’s response; “all we need now is a liter of Your blood and the map to Ingen Stedes.”

The Plan, of course, is their scheme to rob this bank — a heist, an embezzlement, an asking politely; the details don’t matter. The Plan is always just about underway, verily, and only required the oddest, most disparate ingredients before it was ready (items which, of course, always vary with each asking). This is all a joke, of course, but You’ll have to excuse a little silliness among friends.

With this ritual complete, the two both laughed. Karamung chortled quite loudly, for the truth is he is deathly afraid of what happens after it goes around that his vision has all grayed out. Blindness is bad blood, and bad blood cannot be suffered to spread, or even to live.

This Ushra was a learnèd fellow, and Karamung’s hope has become that he would have answers to this newest plight. And so Karamung divulged this development to his friend, apologizing at the end for bothering him during work time.

Frowning greatly and scratching softly his legs, this Ushra had become quite disgusted with his friend. He backed away as if his blindness might carry over.

“I’ve always been like this, buddy. It’s no threat to You,” said Karamung.

It was the wrong this to say; he had said it to reassure him. It did not reassure him. It disturbed him further.

“I need to get back to my work,” said the banker in a dark tone. “Go see a medical alchemist, please.”

◯

Karamung was in a bad way as he left the bank. His fangs were dewing lightly and even the cheery wild parrots seemed wretched in their singing. Karamung would give his friend time and space to think and reason. Not even a little defect should drive a wedge between him and his longest time joking partner.

At once traveled he to the town’s only medical alchemist. Her name is not especially important for this story. In fact, Karamung may as well have never bothered for all the good it would do him. But that will be taken in time.

In the lobby to this alchemist’s clinic sat Karamung as he awaited and paged through his day book of sorts. I say of sorts because if he had a name for it, he might call it an ‘anti-day book’ or perhaps even a night book, joker that he is.

In this book Karamung did not write schedules or happenings. In their stead he wrote predictions. But they weren’t quite predictions, either, for they were things that wouldn’t happen.

Yes, he wrote all manner of non-predictions in this book, such as, ‘I won’t get a better job,’ or, ‘I won’t get another chance out with that cute wiver,’ or of course, ‘I won’t regain my sight.’ This book is important, so remember it.

As our Karamung paged and wrote, a sadly familiar wiver in white seer robes slinks up and lies right beside him. Karamung startled, wondering if he should ask her leave or simply find a new mat. But she had a purpose in finding our hero, and it would do him no good either way.

“You still have that wretched day book of yours, i see,” said she. “Thus i take it Your sight has not improved?”

You may have guessed it, but this is the very same seer mentioned at the start of this story.

Karamung was not very pleased, and only asked, “What do you want?”

She scoffed and said, “I want to help You, and that makes just one of us.”

It was his turn to scoff, and he said, “All Your help is empty words. You said my sight would improve already and it hasn’t. In fact, it has gotten worse and i’m of half a mind to blame you.” In truth, he wasn’t, but wanted to provoke a confession if it were true.

“It was You and that godspat day book that doomed that, not me. My words may yet come true, if You allow them.”

“You think my allowance could turn the winds?” Karamung laughed lightly; he was already missing having something worth laughing about.

“I think that day book and Your cynical confidence in what won’t happen brought you here. I say destroy that book, and your sight might return.” She tossed a bundle of matches tied with string.

Karamung caught it and said, “I would sooner trust a medical alchemist then Your floaty pronouncements.” But he kept the matches.

“Indeed. This alchemist too will heal your sight, should You allow it. This I prophecize,” said she with a wink of her frills.

Karamung chortled and wrote this in his book as ‘The alchemist won’t heal my sight’ — for seers could not be trusted.

The seer scoffed once more and walked disgusted from the clinic. Some time latter, the medical alchemist saw Karamung and our hero couldn’t return the favor. Just as i told you, he may well have not bothered, as the alchemist only marveled at his condition and prescribed an expensive medicine, which did nothing. Doing this is quite profitable and alchemists are very fond of it. Suffer it to say even as he took it for days and watched his funds turn into more of it, nothing it did.

Even that fateful meeting with the seer could not have justified this useless course of action, for the seer sought Karamung out in the days that carried on. She found him even when he hid. She repeated her warnings about the day book, queer sayings about his allowing things. She brought him food too, and sometimes kept him company when he allowed it.

But i am sad to say that Karamung his blindness could not remain a secret. Whether it was that Ushra, the medical alchemist, or the seer, he did not know. It did not matter, either, for the town grew disgusted with him all the same; and the queen began to take unfortunate interest in him and his now-bad blood.

“I don’t have long now,” he would say, and the seer would look sadly when he did. Once, in a pique of whimsy, he wrote as much in his day book. It was a joke, however, has Karamung did not share the seer’s superstitions about the book. He wrote it under the date when he would answer to the queen about his blindness.

As that date approached, he grew more grim and cynical. He would yell and curse at the seer, and it was a pathetic thing, for she was the only one who still spoke to him. Eventually, even she left, and he was all very alone, this on the night before he would face his doom at the queen’s court.

He cursed everyone who had abandoned him, his bad-blooded parents for giving him his godspat eyes, and the seer for thinking this doom was his own fault.

Most of all, he cursed that Ushra, because he knew that the banker could light even this grimness with a joke.

Karamung looked at his day book and sighed. “I’m not doing this for you, smited seer,” said he, “but for my friend. I wish we would share one more joke.” It was while repeating this as a mantra that he took and match and at last destroyed the day book, burning all of his cynicism and anti-predictions to ash.

The seer hadn’t really abandoned him, and she watched our hero make his decision with a small smile.

Karamung slept deep that night, and he was awoken by the piercing bright of second day in his eyes.

◯

“Smited seer,” was what he repeated as he walked to the queen’s court. The queen and her physician examined Karamung that day, and while he had pitiful myopic sight, the rumor of Karamung his blindness seemed greatly exaggerated.

Karamung was deemed free to go, and he met her just outside the court.

“Smited seer,” was Karamung his greeting.

“Foolish cynic,” was hers.

“You weren’t right, you know,” he said.

“You cannot think that.”

He would. “Tell me seer,” he started harshly, but the seer made to leave before he could finish, remembering the short temper and cursing that had her leaving before. “Please,” his tone softened. “Just one more question, and I won’t bother you for ever.”

“I’ll listen.”

“What’s to become of my friend and me? Will we ever make up and joke again?”

The seer gave him his answer. And off he went to the bank, in spite of — or perhaps because of her answer. Seers couldn’t be trusted; but he now know only a fool ignores their words.