Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [112]
Taken in the inn’s tavern, the evening meal was excellent, as artistically and competently prepared and presented as the building in which it was served. Nor were the three travelers the only ones eating there. Locals began to trickle in with the setting of the sun, finding their way through Netherbrae’s immaculate streets with the aid of small, elegantly repoussed tin lanterns. Soon the tavern was alive with laughter and earnest conversation. Men discussed the opening of a new patch of forest to logging, for the village supplied many wood products to Bondressey and Squoy. Women talked children and household tasks, and both genders indulged in much good-natured gossiping.
As the three travelers sat at one of the long communal benches, they spoke mostly among themselves. But as the evening wore on and the tavern became more crowded, the jocularity more general, and the banter more boisterous, they inevitably found themselves drawn into conversation with the locals. Certainly Simna was. Knucker was a hesitant talker, and Ehomba could be downright noncommunicative.
Leaning out of his chair, the swordsman inquired casually of one burly native seated nearby, “So you cut a lot of trees, do you?”
“Why not?” The man’s hands were thick and callused from a lifetime of heavy physical labor. “We have lots of trees, and the Bondresseyeans pay well for our timber. Besides, a two-man cross-cut saw makes awfully quick work of carrots, so we might as well use them to cut trees.” His companions roared and Simna deigned to smile graciously at the spirited outpouring of bucolic humor.
“Any lady loggers among you?” He grinned hopefully. The laughter around him died instantly. Grave expressions took the place of the easy affability that had prevailed. “That would be an abomination. No Netherbraen, man or woman, would stand for it.”
“Hoy,” murmured Simna contritely, “it was just a question. Remember, my friends and I are strangers here.”
“That’s true . . . yes, that’s so . . .” Gradually the group regained its smiles and humor. “A lady logger—talk like that could get a man condemned.”
“Condemned?” Ehomba joined the dialogue. “Condemned by whom?”
“Why, by Tragg, of course.” The locals looked at one another and shook their heads in mutual commiseration at the visitors’ ignorance. “Tragg is the God of wandering forest paths. Whoever follows His way and His teachings will live a long and happy life here in the Hrugar Mountains. So it has always been for the citizens of Netherbrae.”
“This is what your priests tell you?” Subsequent to his initial faux pas, Simna tried to couch his comments in the least offensive manner possible.
“Priests?” The men exchanged a glance and, to the swordsman’s relief, burst out laughing once again. “We have no priests!”
“We know the truth of what Tragg tells us,” avowed another, “because it has always been the truth. We don’t need priests to tell us these things. We are as much a part of the Thinking Kingdoms as Melespra or Urenon the Elegant.”
“Yes. The only difference is that we choose to live in simpler surroundings.” The villager nearest Simna gestured expansively. “No need here for estates or castles. Our homes we decorate with humble wood, enhanced and beautified by our own hands. All of this Tragg tells us.”
“Does he also tell you that animals are filthy creatures?” Ehomba asked the question before Simna could catch the gist of it and stop him.
The swordsman was needlessly concerned. Another of the villagers answered freely and without hesitation. “Of course! Whenever we are unsure about anything, we put our faith in the teachings of Tragg and they tell us what to do.”
“And these teachings,” Ehomba inquired, “they are never wrong?”
“Never,” declared several of the men and two of the women in concert.
“But I thought you said that Netherbrae was as one with the Thinking Kingdoms. If you rely on the teachings of Tragg to tell you what to do, then that means you are not thinking about what to do. You are substituting belief for thought.”
Leaning close to his friend,