Meaningless Murder Pony Portal Pals

My name is Handridg Kowar Guscerowsky, and I'm living out living out a dream come true. It had been a year in the planning and nearly as long in arriving, but i've had arrived in the city of my dreams at last: Jerusalem.

It was 12 years ago that I first heard of this divine city. A marauding band of german knights came through my small village in Pomerania, demanding the people accept their christ god.

While my parents had accepted outwardly, they keep their old beliefs in the end. They pray to the river and to the sky, gave thanks to the god of storms, make the occasional offering to the black god of death.

This was by no means uncommon in Guscerow. My village has been unmolested by inquisitors or Germans for quite some time, so the people have slipped back into the old ways. But I never fully recovered. It was the beginning of a spiritual journey of sorts.

When the germans knights came through I was a curious boy of 10. I didn't really pay attention to their words, only their shiny armor and beautiful horses. When knight weren’t looking, I rifled through their saddlebags. Among my ill-gotten goods was a coin and a small leather bound book.

It was the first book I'd ever seen, lovingly printed words and carefully etched scenes. However, I couldn't even read in my native language, and this book was in some flowery language the knights had showed off, from a land far to the south.

The coin was unlikely to be currency, as it had no discernible marking of it's worth. On one side it bore the image of a man, probably the christ god. On it's back was more latin, scratched into the coin. The little devotional medallion was most likely a cherished belonging, but children have no empathy. And it was shiny.

Long after the knights had left, I loved looking at the book and coin. The coin's serene faces promised me a joyous reward in kingdom of heaven, enticing me to fight for the german's god. The book's pages held a million words of secret knowledge, who's only hint was the corresponding sketches, depicting scenes of the tortured souls of men, the loyal bowed heads of kings, the fantastical face of the christ god.

My village believed in the thinly veiled power of nature and the gods. Every great tree and every subtle spring was watched by a god. The passing storms and howling wolves where each a hint at the presence of the most powerful gods, treading the sky and earth.

To me the concept of such fantastical power, vested in one god, capable of both universal destruction and infinite mercy as the germans said, was rather awesome.

I compromised with his parent's devotion to the native gods. The christ god was a god of man, their divine sovereign much like the tree gods watched the deer. I say watched, because while the trees provide to the deer stealth and shelter, they don't move to stay their death. Such was the way with christ god, I reasoned. An apathetic shepherd, he was.

Almost a year later, a cabal of Hanoverian inquisitors and soldiers blew into town, on their way east. They were frighteningly armed, the inquisitors humble robes clashing greatly with their frightening swords. Most of the villagers hid away, but I confronted them, asking more about christ god.

“Little boy.” One of the inquisitors started.

“Handridg.” I enthused.

“You should get your answers from your bible. Should you want to learn it, go to an abby. The brothers will want to teach you their own ideas of the lord, but politely refuse. God is in the heart of each man, waiting to be found. The only false interpretation is by one who denies him. Or the pope, keep him in mind too, otherwise you might find me at you door. Pray you never meet my while I'm at work, boy.”

“Do these heathens pray? I heard they make satanic sacrifices.” One of the soldiers at the inquisitor’s side conjured. He stood over me threateningly.

“Only on special occasions, nemic!” My mother burst onto the scene and dragged me away.

The christians considered coming after us but, at the inquisitors insistence, departed as soon as they got the feed they wanted. Heresy never sleeps, after all!

When I was 15, old enough to travel on my own, I borrowed my friend Boscij's donkey and headed south, to Czech kingdom. For a boy who had never see past the forests of his home, Prague was overwhelming. It had walls! Streets! The churches and palaces could hold all of Guscerowe within. For six months I stayed with the brothers of the Brevnov monastery, outside the city. I studied latin and attended mass, living off alms and the hospitality of the brothers. I was somewhat of an attraction: A forest pagan come to see the light of civilization and god.

Was a joyous half-year. I spent my mornings among the brothers, every mid-day I hopped between the great vistas of Prague, and every evening I practiced latin, czech, and german. By the time I left I had many a friend among the monks and the city dwellers. I picked up my friend’s donkey and returned to Guscerowe.

The village was exactly how I left it. There had been births, and there had been deaths, but no house nor tree nor totem had moved. That suited me just fine. I resumed my place in the fields by day and read from the leather bible by night.

But I dreamed of more. The little book made constant reference to a city, the center of the christ god's universe, Jerusalem. Throughout it's history it had been the focal point of all manor of violence and war. I had been relatively up to date when I was in Prague, and heard of the plight of this holy land even now. The brothers told tales of the Saracens, an unholy desert horde, who were threatening to take the holy city back from christendom. Surely, they claimed, when this happened the world would end.

I was a bit more skeptical, but I found the appeal of this city of the world's desire irresistible.

“Here in the forest it is easy to see why people believe in the old gods. Nature is so absolute here, so all encompassing. The majestic trees and mighty storms are the most powerful thing in this world; The power of our gods are undeniable. When the end of the world comes, it will undoubtable reach our village on the back of the black god of death.” Boscij and I reposed in an orchard after a day's work.

“Whatever you say, Handridg.”

“But I've seen the world, Boscij. Not everywhere is like this. In the big city, there are no trees or gentle rivers. It is a realm of men, and they worship a god of men there. Doom will come not at the hands of nature, but your fellow man. Halberd toting guard, murderous thief, tyrannical king. These are what will get you in the city,”

“Sounds awful.”

“It's just a different way of looking at the world. Here we live and die by the rules and whims of nature. In Prague they lived and died by the rules and whims of man. One system is unsuited for the habitat of the other. Sometimes I wish I didn’t know about the christ god so I could live here ignorantly.”

“What are you getting at?”

“I'm saying that I've become too human for my home, Boscij. I can't be content with the protection of the trees knowing that there are walls. Don't misunderstand me, friend. Guscerowe is the most beautiful place on the gods' earth. I need for some filth, methinks.”

“Your leaving?”

“Not forever, and not immediately. It's just that I yearn for more. I want to see every harsh or hallowed land, every depravity and kindness, and all the walls of this earth. If I can't have that I should like to see Jerusalem.”

“Didn't you say Jerusalem is the homeland of the christ god?”

“Yes indeed. If I find it well, It could be mine also.”

And so I worked tirelessly for five more years with my parents. I helped in the fields, hunted game for the elders, apprenticed in smithing. Every time I could, I would do a favor for a fellow villager. By the time I was twenty-one, most everyone in Guscerowe owed me one. After that years harvest, I decided to call them all in.

A pilgrimage to the holiest city on the earth, I said. “The peoples of dozens of faiths all call one eternal city their own. It has been at the center of the christ god's gaze for seven millenniums! Can you even imagine a god staying in one place for so long? It must be fantastic. So I plead for your help in my journey.”

The whole village chipped in for their prodigal son. They provided a cart, strong horse, and a variety of little tokens I could sell for food on my trip. I set out imediatly. I wintered in Prague, catching up on the five years with the brothers of Brevnov. When spring came I set off again, tracking through Wien and Udine, to arrive in Venezia.

Venezia dwarfed all the other cities I had seen in size and scope. The entire city rose out of the sea, an archipelago of stone and glass. Apparently, the riches of all the lands of the earth flowed through this island city, providing them wealth beyond imagining. For my contribution, I sold the last of my baubles and purchased passage on a ship going to Acre.

The voyage was tortuous. The swelling seas made me incredibly ill, from which I was given reprieve by the still nights. Sometimes dark clouds passed nearby, and I prayed fervently to the storm god to keep them away. He apparently obliged, as we were spared the wrath of rain and lightning.

As the cog sailed southward, the sun intensified and the sky became perpetually clear. I could often see the shores of lands we passed. Corfu, Krete, Rhodos, Cypro, I received different names from the Venetian, Frankish, and Hellene sailors. I didn't even know where Hellas or Frankreich was. It served to remind me how large the world was.

Acre was a vibrant city, filled with more ships from a thousand cities. Every hour a new vessel arrived depositing pilgrims and goods. The curiosities were endless. The city was built half in a familiar angular style and half of spectacular domes and pointed arches. The natives wore beautiful colored garb of an amazing smooth cloth. I saw many new peoples: men with brown skin and feathered hats, or small eyes and orange robes, or red hair! It took me a while to find someone who spoke german or latin from whom I could get directions.

I joined a band of crusader knights on the road to Jerusalem. Their leader, a man names Aethal, spoke latin, and we exchanged tales and stories. He was from some place known as Sussiex in Angleterre and his knights were from the same county. They had heard of the plight of the holy city and had decided to pledge their service to the king of Jerusalem.

The road took us into progressively more arid and rocky land, away from the verdant coastal plain. The road became more congested, as it began to wind among hills and small brown mountains.

We passed around a particularly tall hill, and there it was, unexpectedly revealed to us. Jerusalem was the most ferocious city I had yet seen. It was built upon a mountain, overflowing down along it's gentle slopes. Multiple rings of walls could be seen, providing the city with an imposing defense. At this distance I could barely see the towers and fortifications, streaming banners, wall mounted siege engines.

“By the storm, those are beautiful walls.” I almost cried with happiness, as several of my traveling companions had. We struggled our way up to the west gate, the focal point of multiple streams of pilgrims. As we passed through the gate I ran my hand along the mortar seams binding the sandstone blocks together, appreciating it's even construction.

My actions caught the attention of one of the guards, a Frank uniformed in a mix of local fiber shawl and european armor. He pulled me aside and began to barrage me with questions in what sounded like the local arab language, switching to Frankish when I proved ignorant to his words.  Noticing my plight, Aethal bounded over and exchanged a few words with the guard in Frankish. Accepting whatever my friend had said, the guard released me.

“Why don't you stay with us Handridg. The holy city is a dangerous place.” The English knight proposed. I nodded with enthusiasm; I didn’t want to get imprisoned or killed over a misunderstanding, though that would be a very fitting death in the human city.

The streets of Jerusalem where dusty and crowded. Every available patch of ground was occupied by vendor stalls or wretched beggars. We passed processions of wailing devotees and patrolling soldiers in tarnished plate armor. We proceeded upwards, mounting the hill through more fortified walls to the next tier of the city.

Everything was cleaner on the hill. The sandstone houses were grown from size of hovels to that of castles. The merchants and beggars l looked upon dressed like princes, the the nobles lounging on their porches where swathed in exotic fabric, silk they called it. Soldiers graced every corner, sporting gleaming mail and arrogant smirks. The displays wealth I saw rivaled Venezia.

Our destination for the evening was the palace, hidden behind a final set of walls. For all the divine protection Jerusalem allegedly received, it sure had plenty of walls and guards. The palace was a grand affair, a mash of courtyards and columned galleries and arcades. Aethal announced us to a courtier who led us to a small garden before scurried off. Several minutes later a pack of knights greeted us, led by a scarred man in white armor.

The white knight stood out to me for reasons I could not explain. He was groomed in the conventional crusader style, with short hair and a messy shave. His skin was olive, and he looked hellene or italian. He young, probably in his early 30s, but had hair of the brightest white. Similarly odd was his cloudy green eyes. The knight had a white surcoat and cape over his impeccably clean and shiny armor, devoid of any symbols or identification.

Aethal conversed with this white knight in Frankish, the other English knights and I hanging back. Aethal appeared to be describing their journey, but the knight was ignoring him. The white knight was staring directly at me, taking in my incongruous presence among these warriors. I stared back locking eyes for a moment before the knight turned back to Aethal. He said a few words before walking away, taking his entourage with him.

“What was that about.” I asked.

“The grandmaster has refused to let you into the barracks. Sorry Handridg, but it looks like you'll be sleeping elsewhere.”

I was disturbed. I had heard that the crusaders regularly let pilgrims stay in their barracks. “Aethal, what did you say?”

“I told him you were a visiting holy man.”

I balked. “That might be overselling it. You could have said I'm a visiting biblical scholar.”

Aethal gave me a sly look. “I suppose until you can learn enough Arabic or Frankish, you are whatever I say you are.”

On our way out of the palace we separated, and I spent the dwindling daylight hours wandering around the temple district. I tried to find anyone who spoke something intelligible. Everyone spoke only the most broken latin, even the priests languishing in the churches.

I was angry frustrated. Even in Prague I had found more hospitable people.

I found my way down the eastern slope of the mountain. This place, I decided, was truly the pinnacle of humanity. It was filled to the brim with people, of the whole spectrum of class and race. The walls where tall and so were the temples. Filth ran through the street, and gold danced between hands. It inhabitants were proud and self-absorbed. So very, very human.

The sun began to set atop the hills, and a different kind of gold danced on the rooftops. Tired, I searched for a vacant patch of soil to rest on. I followed the inner wall, until I was once more in the western city. Everywhere I looked where dirty souls, sheltering by the sandstone behemoth.

I finally found my spot. Sitting a few paces from the inner wall was an exposed section of a collapsed building, some hundred paces long. No houses had been built nearby, the space occupied only by a dozen men, who seemed uncommonly well dressed for this part of the city.

As I neared them, they beckoned me closer. I stood over the little circle.

“Good evening.” One of them said in German. He was an older man, with a balding head of black hair and a scruffy beard. His grey robes had once been white, but where well maintained despite their age. I was ecstatic. Finally someone I could understand.

“Greeting all of you!” I sat down. The German speaker translated my words into aramaic. They gave their own greetings, but cast wary glances at my arrival. I didn't seem so welcome.

“I never thought I'd say it, but I'm honestly overjoyed to meet a German.” I was so tired of all the Arabs and Franks, who refused to even speak latin.

“I would not say I'm german, exactly, but admittedly you are a reminder of home.”

“Where is home for you?”

I began to notice the man's features sadden. “I used to live in Koln. Five years ago, my shop was burned and my family was run out by fanatics. Now I live wherever I'm safe from overeager swords.”

“Your a jew.” I realized. This whole circle was likely the jewish pilgrims. Foreigners in their own city, shunned or lorded over by a Frankish military theocracy. Here they were, sticking together by an old wall.

“I'm a man who happens to be jewish.” The german declared.

“I won’t discourage you for that. I'm a manner of heathen myself.” I backpedaled.

“In a city of hypocrites, that is an uncommon prudence.” The german gestured over the group. “You can stay the night. There is safety in numbers.”

“What's your name?” I asked the german.

“Zackary, and your's?”

“Handridg Kowar Guscerowsky.”

For the next several hours, far beyond the setting of the sun. I gave these men my life story, and then I heard theirs. Zackary and two others were from the Holy Roman Empire of the Germans, but the second spoke flemish and the third from Swabia only knew aramaic. One hailed from a polish principality, and the rest where from Lombardy.

After we had gone around the circle we began to talk about why we had come. The lombards and the flan where here on merchant business. The pole was a tanner's son, searching for his brother who had left home for Jerusalem years previous. The swabian claimed only to being on the business of a lord in the empire. Besides from Zackary and I, these were respectable people, reduced to hiding.

“The christian who burned down my life and murdered my family and friends claimed to be taking inspiration from the crusader knights, who allegedly purged the holy land of Saracens. I suppose wanted to see if the Franks were having as much luck as the zealot rabble.” Zackary said once in german and once in aramaic.

He was so placid as he said it, a chill ran down my side. He appeared neither vengeful or angry.

“What brings you here?” I was asked. It was my turn.

“I'm just a visitor. I have foolishly left a comfortable life among the people who love me, and now I seek my fortune among those who would rob and kill me as soon as look at me. I had no great expectations for this city, so I'm not disappointed. I got what I wanted. I came to see the city of men.”

“Not the city of god?”

“So far I have seen little of god, and much of men.” I laughed.

The german translated my joke, and the circle laughed modestly along with me. The swabian spoke at me in aramaic.

“He says to stay for a while and that might change.” Zackary translated.

The rising sun tickled my face and awoke me the next morning. I heard the sounds of a walking city, with crying animals and human sounds already carrying through the streets. I looked around and saw that most of my companions of the previous night had already left. Only the pole and one of the lombards remained asleep. However, Zachary was nearby, feasting on some bread in the shadow of the wall.

“Did you have a pleasant sleep, Handridg?”

“Most pleasant.”

“Hmm, so did the others.” He looked contemplative, nibbling on the edge of the bread. I sat close to him.

“What happened?”

“I have always been able to remember my dreams with unusual clarity. It's awful, when you are tortured by nightmares every night as I am. I've relived the death of everything I held dear so many times, I can hardly remember what actually happened. I have suffered a thousand thousand deaths, and I wonder if I will realize when it actually happens.”

“You had a nightmare last night.”

“Oh yes, the worst I ever had. It had death aplenty, burning homes, breaking dreams and horrible screams. But I didn't recognize them. They weren’t from my past.”

I was curious, but failed to see any cause for alarm. “I think I had better go. I must find work if I'm to stay here long. My companion Aethal I spoke of last night said he would help me.”

“Can you hear those whispers?”

I could not.

“I've been hearing the most insidious whispers all morning, but no one else can. I think my dream was a premonition of coming doom, Handridg.”

The old man was starting to scare me. Premonitions are no joke among my people. I got up. “I really should go now.”

“Do you know much about history? About this city?” Zackary stood up too.

“Only what I read in my bible.” I've don't often have ready access to books, and most of what I read in Prague was theological.

“Do you recall the Romans?”

“Certainly.”

“At the same time that this city was being put to the torch, Rome was thriving. The fuel of millions of peoples fed it's great flames. It prospered and Jerusalem burned.”

“What are you saying Zackary? Are you going to Rome, or are you going to burn Jerusalem.” I slowly backed away.

“No no, Rome isn't safe either. I've got to get to where things are thriving, to the home of the invaders.”

“And who are the invaders? The Franks? The Saracens? Where is their home?”

“The invader does not matter. As for where... I can show you where.”

Zachary wheeled around and broke into a sprint. He collided with the decrepit city wall at full speed. He impacted with a crunch, then crumpled into the dust.

I was held in place by the gruesome display. Zackary was dead, blood began to pool at his hands, still gripping at the bread. I struggled to breath, my limbs refused to obey me. For hours I stood in place. After half an hour some street urchins stripped Zackary of his bloody clothes. Some time after, some guards same and removed his body as well. They didn't bother me. They didn't particularly care what the cause of death had been.

The others had fled to avoid attention. I was alone with the dirty pool of blood and the wall. Finally my legs failed me, and I fell onto my back. The sun was setting. My mind, unable to comprehend what had happened, took refuge in my dreams.

-

A knocking echoed in my head, and all throughout my body. There was someone at my door. But there was no door in my humble home, only towering sandstone walls.

The knock was insistent, carrying thought the walls clearly. But still no portal was available. I scratched at the stones of the walls, but all i left was discoloration.

"I can't let you in, i don't know how!" I yelled back at the knocking.

The only response was more knocking. It was beginning to stress me.

"Please stop. I want to let you in, but I am not able."

The knocks became violent and rapid.

"Truly, i would let you in if I could! There even isn't anything here for you."

The massive walls collapsed into piles of rubble. The world outside my room was as beautiful as a painting, lush and green.

"How presumptuous of you to think you had something I wanted." An ambiguous voice sounded in my head. "I wanted to help you out of your confinement, and yet you believed it nice enough to provoke jealousy in others."

"No! I didn't think that at all! I only wanted to help!"

"You may still do so. Let me help you out, and i will forgive you."

The scenery fell away, and what had been the floor of the original room was now surrounded by a sea of flames.

"Climb out of your delusion, entity. And, if you could find me a home, that would be nice too."