THE DREGS OF CHANCE

The door of the castle was hinged open as a voice cried out: “Jokkam! Jokkam!” The child gasped amidst his tears and drenched body as he narrowly wedged himself into the rocks. He closed his eyes, as though his inability to see would prevent others from doing so. The call came again but faded, as though the searcher had gone the opposite direction.

“She’s gone, she’s gone,” he wept, rocking back and forth. At last he peeked open with one eye: it looked out at the terrible sea. As it roared and erupted its waves into the air like a behemoth rising, a certain fortitude of calmness overtook him. He rose carefully and turned his gaze back toward the castle. So thick were the walls that it would take years of decay to wither them dry to the bone— and contrarily, so thin did the child feel, the flesh of his heart pierced with loss and grief.

He could still hear all in the castle filled with life, muscle, good cheer, and red wine. Death and life— even he knew there was a time when nothing stood upon those crushed, browned grasses where now stood the castle. There had been mere scattered bits of pebbles, wood in the form of dark forests, and gold intermingled with the other sediments of the fine waters. None of those elements had ever envisaged that they would once form such a whole, humbling themselves as participators in that beauty formed of chisel and hammer.

He could almost feel the silence that had once been— when a bird chirp could be heard from a league away. So many generations upon generations had passed, merrymaking before fading into the lost pages of history. As time had descended, so suddenly the most unlikely thing descended upon the child’s forehead: a rose petal. He grabbed it: it was soaked as he was, but it seemed to be more enlivened as from dew.

Having ventured into the past, the child embraced the rose but then gazed far into the future: how unaltered it could appear from the past! This grand castle, this symbol of power, was collapsible. Those racks of spears and lances, darkened in the underground of the castle but enlivened by the faintest candlelight of the occasional wanderer, had been forged in an oven of lava and shaped with mastery. Yet, they could be crushed. If the earth itself were to quake by a command, in an instant it could uproot the bluff and hurl the castle into the sea. Of it, a tale would be told no more.

The child saw the people fade into evanescence. Vanished they’d all be, as fate demands: their bodies to be lowered and burrowed into the dust of the earth as sizzling, thin bones of degradation. Those willing souls would harrowingly reach toward those skeletons and grieve of the supposed lifeblood, witnessing all former preciousness as forsaken in lamentation. Despair, though, would give way to a graceful facetiousness that only a child could carry upon such remembrances.

So that child smiled. Skeletons no longer harbored eeriness. The rose petal seemed as though it had come from his mother, and the raindrops were not her tears of grief, but her tears of love. Only that wonder, that newfound innocence, which seemed granted unto him, would supersede the hopelessness of many of his generation. The child smirked as he looked upon it all: the dreary grasses of ages past, the merrymaking of the present age, and the collapse of all to come. Somehow laughter would be the key, and so he laughed— even in his moment of grief. He laughed, for from it the true animation of spirit would one day bring back those skeletons to a new girt, enlivened and rekindled from this new grace of joy.

Rising from his wedge in the rocks, a tremendous courage overtook the child. Planting his feet carefully and placing his small, soft hands strategically, he repelled down the cliff of jutting rocks. The sea whirlpooled at his approach, either in warning or fear of this daring child. His mind wandered to desert lands: dusty dunes in which he had drawn with his finger an image of a beautiful woman into the sands: the one who was gone.

The wind dispersed the sands into nothingness, but he gazed upward at the skies and saw in a white cloud the very image that had been taken adrift. It had not been burrowed deep, but rather taken aloft. The child smiled, and he no longer thought of white clouds but saw the real, dark ones, but he still smiled. “If she is up there…” he prayed simply. Continually did he fix his sight to the heavens.

Then some particles of the sea sprayed upon him; he blinked from the salty waters and then looked down into that madness itself. “You made me,” the child, looking up once more, believed. Signing his forehead with the cross, he weaved his way as close as he could to the edge of the waters. His reflection could be seen— and it was almost glowing. He cupped his hands and slowly brought them down, and then… Splash!

* * *

“Gah!” Jokkam cried, shaking the waters off his leather shoe with foul grunts. “Someone has to fix these rotten leaks,” he muttered. It was dark, damp, and dreary where he dwelled— many winters beyond that day of long ago when the salty aroma had shrouded the child in a mist of benevolence— a rare heavenly light beam burrowing through the storm clouds. Salt no longer freshened the air but merely checkered the stonework, for only old mold crept around the underground of the castle.

Low in energy from being low in spirits, Jokkam heaved his way onto the staircase and began crawling his way up the stairs, shivering. He made no hurry, for human beings were a frightening and most valid reason to delay rather than return to that hot space. Each step of the ascent felt like that of a descent, for his fear had turned his world upside down.

The spiders beside him appeared to be working more properly than he. They were making their well-planned webs without any concern or second thoughts. The shadow of these webs reverberated with Jokkam’s candlelight— red and yellow to bring whatever little comfort it could to the dark, soggy staircase. The bottom could still be faintly seen: stone flooring joined together with mortar. The stones appeared rough and rather uneven. “To ascend to the waters of the sky,” he recalled from his childhood, “descend into the waters of life, and rejoice…”

Large, wooden barrels with black rims were stored down in the underground. Some of them had been tipped onto their sides, while others were neatly organized but dusty atop. “All of it at one point was not,” he reminded himself, turning around to sit his butt down momentarily on the stairs to recollect himself. “Even where I am sitting right now— this was just grass. There was no one around.”

The chatter from the dining hall was disturbing his peace. His peace, though, was not demanded, but his duty was. “With no more war, just the sunlight shining. Birds would chirp in the trees. Imagine it’s just me. How temporary and fleeting it all is! Yet I care so much. LORD, can I not soar up to look upon my condition and laugh? But there will not be any laughter but only tears. I care too much; but should I forsake these people?”

He scrunched his knees up to his face to insulate himself, flicking away the nuisance of a spider. The depths of the underground almost seemed to summon him. There was so much chaos behind him up the stairs that he wished to just hide down there forever. “One more look,” Jokkam rose up with a sudden determination, practically filling that entire basement with a whole new aura just from his shift in attitude.

As though he had entered a portal, this interior light illumined his heart and entranced its fixation. Of those long gone, he saw their wine and laughter flared up into the air. Glasses shattered and men hollered and jested. Those specks of minerals saw the dawn again, as the darkness had just been eclipsed from the light. Transitorily, it seemed as though Jokkam had just landed upon those sands, seeing the sunken castle, but not bemoaning it. Then, though, the winds sighed and reminded him, and it pressed against his arm…

“Jokkam!” came a voice and a hand pulling on his arm. Jokkam’s eyes had to adjust to the light that shined upon the etched stone above the basement stairwell. He turned around with a cracked back.

“You can probably foretell the misfortune,” Jokkam coughed and proceeded, “that I am going to relay to you, Kur, and the others.”

“Buddy,” Kur reached out a hand, which Jokkam took, “you can always spew your misfortunes upon me.”

“Yes, but I will not spew the consequences of said misfortunes upon you. Should one man bear the punishment of another? You be the judge.” They both walked out of the cellar and into the light, the core of Jokkam’s eyes blackened from his prolonged stay in the darkness.

They emerged into the pantry with its dense air of flour and starch. Jokkam relayed dreadfully, “It was in vain.” They passed into the kitchen. He gulped as he beheld that glorious sight of cooking and preparation, painfully wincing at what darkness that joyful, outer madness could turn into because of his fatal error.

Lettuce buds flew into the air as knives sharper than the knights’ swords hammered down upon them with a sheer force. Steam rose as one servant cleared the vicinity, all sniffing at the new scent of charred oxen that permeated the room. In competition, baked goods and loaves of freshly baked bread in hand-crafted wooden baskets, covered in fine linen cloths, were carried out like the sequence of trumpeters in a band. They were being led out into the hall, which was accessed through a wide opening in the kitchen.

“So you found nothing, then,” Kur presumed, standing beside Jokkam, who continued to infer the different kitchen whereabouts, ensuring everything was smoothly sailing following his absence down underneath.

Sighing, he summoned a rather teary-eyed appearance: “No, Kur.” He looked at his friend, “It behooves me to revoke my statement. It was not all in vain.” A metal pan could be heard bashing into a countertop, and a few impulsive words were exchanged between a couple of servants. “I didn’t find nothing when I was down there: I found myself.”

Kur gazed upon his dear friend, and with a heartfelt sincerity, he began to laugh in hysterics. Jokkam could no longer contain it; he broke out into laughter, bursting like the fat popping along the wall of the oxen that had been overcooked by Reuben, who cussed in his disgruntled state. “Bwa-ha-ha!” Kur prolonged. “You found yourself, ha-ha!”

Jokkam had to refill his lungs with fresh air to even continue speaking. “Yeah, what should your confidence or lack thereof in my farcical claim tell me?” He bore the look of a pretend worry, and then shrugged it off with laughter.

“Really, Jokkam, you’re in the deep here,” Kur became serious. “Has this ever happened before?”

“No.”

“Do you even know what to do in this situation?”

“No.”

“Are you sure there’s not a chance—”

“There’s no chance,” Jokkam cut him off curtly. He slapped his hands together, as if wiping clean any further inquiries from Kur.

“You don’t seem too concerned,” Kur recognized, as Jokkam held this rather serious gaze, assessing the state of all operations in the kitchen, for if but one thing could bring such destruction, at least all lesser things must be in order.

One servant, in a jolly way, tossed three potatoes behind his back to his buddy, who caught them all consecutively. Jokkam winced a bit at this, appearing a bit lifeless and grumpy, but then a smirk formed and he chuckled at this sight. “No, Kur: I’m terrified. Witness me as such.” Abruptly Jokkam raised himself upright with shoulders back and, as one on a mission would only look down the path leading to the destination, briskly walked to the side of the kitchen where there hung a variety of fine silver and golden platters. Professionally yanking the finest one off the shelf, he made his way around the kitchen to collect all that he needed.

An assortment of breads had been set upon the one countertop, which had a stone base but a wooden top. Jokkam approached the young lady who was tending to the bread. “Hi, Jokkam!” she beat him to the greeting with a rosy smile.

Jokkam, while assessing the state of the sesame seeds upon the bread and their evenness of distribution, picked out the finest one and tossed it into the air, landing it upon the platter that he had swung around his body to show off. He glanced to the side with his eyes and smiled with a beam of gladness. “Cateline— I could have recognized you from this pristine loaf of bread itself had you been veiled and cloaked thrice. This is fabulous work. I know he will be most pleased with this.”

“You better not take all the credit,” she gave him the eye. “I can take that platter and do everything you’re doing.”

“I don’t doubt you, Cateline. It would be a funny world if we were all doing what we were capable of. Many are given lance and know not how to fight, while many are given shovel and know how to draw blood. It’s a strange world we live in. What will credit do me anyway?”

She got to his level and impressed him by saying, “Does a bird that is nested atop a tree seek shelter elsewhere?”

He raised an eyebrow at her and let the loaf of bread down with a thump, and after some delay, said, “That was impressive; who taught you that one?” He got smacked with the wooden spoon for that remark.

“You are in error to think, Jokkam, that I’m taught. I see through your wit. You’re trying to trick me.”

Jokkam grabbed the piece of bread and took a large bite out of it.

“You fool!” she said. “That was the best piece!”

“You think I’m such a good little servant boy,” Jokkam said. “So there— I ate the king’s best piece of bread. He will never know. Ah, but you care— for you seek the credit.” She folded her arms. “Just give me the second best piece.”

“I won’t forgive you for that,” she swore.

“I’ll make sure to credit you with the king.”

She smacked him with the spoon again, to which he jumped out of the way and snatched the second-best piece of bread before darting away.

“Ha-ha!” he laughed, jolly and in a good mood, glancing at her every so often.

As he neared a fine, copper bowl full of steaming carrots spiced with paprika, he scooped some onto his platter without even halting his movement.

Brushing up against his side, a spy had come upon him. “I saw that, Jokkam— smooth flirt!” Zephi harassed him. “The way you bit into that bread: she’s going to be all over you.”

Jokkam winced a bit at Zephi’s breath and closeness in proximity to his face. He shoved him aside in a friendly manner, “Get outta here!” Shaking his head with a chuckle, he snatched more vegetables that had been salted and prepared by diligent servants for this most notable platter.

“Jokkam,” came the voice of a friend and slightly older servant: Elizabeth. “I know you’re busy—”

“I am never a busy person,” he cut her off plainly. Elizabeth gave him a look of ridiculousness. “I’m serious, though. I will never tell you I am busy because I should always be available to do that which I ought. If what I ought to do is to help you out, I will be there, and I will do it. If another duty demands my attention, it is not because I am too busy that I cannot tend to your matters, but it is because I am not busy enough to not tend to the matters that I ought that I tend not to your matter.”

“Save it for Thursday,” she heartily guffawed. Jokkam nodded his head in agreement. “Listen,” she retried, “I have observed something concerning, and I wanted to bring it directly to your attention before the others—”

“Not a word,” Jokkam hushed her.

“But Jokkam—”

“No, please, Elizabeth: I know.” He gave her an impressionably serious look, and he glanced around to make sure nobody else was in earshot. He thought his demeanor was rather confrontational, so he tried to adjust to make it more accommodating, for they were friends. “You all will be fine,” he assured her. “You are very wise. When the goose gets tied to the pole will the ducks quack?” He thought about this proverb, for he had come up with it on the spot. “Anyway, thank you Elizabeth, but the least I can do is allow people to suffer with stuffed bellies. If you don’t mind, the most important belly needs my attention soon.” He was about to depart from her but then grabbed the clump of towels from her shoulder. He slung them over his own shoulder instead. With heartfelt sincerity he said, “I’ll take care of washing these.”

The sizzling of burners and ovens gave warmth to his ears. The thud of knives slicing fine meats and vegetables was almost melodic. He passed nearby a high, wooden countertop where a figure, with his back to Jokkam, holding a thick and jagged knife, was cutting a different bread into the fattest slices— fit for an army.

“What did that bread ever do to you?” Jokkam asked, taking his final steps to the countertop where he stood to the left of the figure.

“The bread? Nothing. But you—” the figure brought the heavy knife to a thrust, as if he was going to stab Jokkam in the gut.

Jokkam snatched his wrist, and they were both at a point of contention and strength. The wrist of the figure grew red as Jokkam, teeth grinding together, squeezed and strained. Eventually they both gave up and let out sighs of relief, chuckling with one another. It was Reuben— always competing with Jokkam.

Just then Kur came up from behind. Jokkam saw him approaching in his peripheral and stole the loaf of bread, pummeling it against Kur’s head while holding him restrained. Reuben cheered on Jokkam.

“Get… that… off me!” Kur fought. “You fool— what are you doing!” he hollered as bits of leavened wheat chips and crumbs shot off into his eyes and over his clothes.

“This is how I test my bread, Kur!” Jokkam cracked up. He suddenly let Kur go, who kept flinching in anticipation that this was but a brief lull in Jokkam’s beatings.

“Reuben, it’s not firm enough,” Jokkam instructed. “The outside should be crisp. I want to see a dent in Kur’s forehead before the night is over!”

Reuben, diligent in his duties and respectful of Jokkam’s authority over him, adhered to this remark and vowed to do better with the next loaf.

“One of these days you’re really going to stab me, Reuben,” Jokkam joked, though interiorly he actually feared it a bit.

“Ah, but someday, Jokkam, you’ll thank me. I’m going to keep calling you out: the way you wield those knives is far too excellent for this kitchen.” Reuben flung his knife into the air and caught it by the handle, as if to try to match Jokkam’s skill. There was a bit of sweat upon his brow, as if Reuben had not been certain he wouldn’t slice his hand with that move.

Jokkam looked down to the floor and smiled, but he was in some deep thought. “With the way things might go down this evening, perhaps I’ll be forced to.”

“What does that mean?” Reuben asked, as Jokkam walked away from him and back to his sesame bread, lest the most important piece of bread in the entire kitchen grow cold. “What do you mean!?” Reuben called out again louder from behind; but Jokkam ignored him.

Jokkam whispered to himself, “Perhaps I’ve always resisted. The bird that lies fattened in its nest will always fly once the lion comes and knocks the nest off-kilter to tear it asunder.”

He grabbed a large lid and placed it over the platter that had his piece of bread, bummed he had not done so sooner. Pinching himself for that error, he proceeded through the kitchen, greeting the fellow servants and collecting the finest choice of meats, vegetables, and grains for his silver platter. “Perfect,” Jokkam confirmed as he closed the lid after the most tender piece of roast oxen was laid as one lays down a fine relic.

He was ready. The kitchen dampened some of the noise of the hall, but now he was to enter it. Gulping, he had done this a million times, but he anticipated the fire that was to come. The bucket of boiling oil was hanging by a thin thread, and it was being slowly sliced with a sickle. The rhythm of his own movement almost felt like each back and forth motion of that sickle, until it would dump the pot and scorch the town in flames.

* * *

Many waiters and waitresses bustled about the dining hall; some were upholding pastries while others carried sizzling meat. It would appear to an outsider that there was a well-choreographed dance among the servants, for they did not collide with one another. However, they were just keen and attentive to their duties.

Side to side went Jokkam’s eyes, vigilant of his surroundings as his great platter rose above the heads of some of the knights. The platter held atop it a dish fit for a king— and a king, indeed, was to receive it. Jokkam used one hand except when he had to maneuver around some other servants— or the occasional knight who rose from the table for whatever reason. The knights were large and meaty men, and they made even the kitchen seem quiet. Alcohol stained the tables, and in their aggressiveness, fists hammered down upon the tables as expressions of happiness or anger— really, any emotion in the books.

High above them all was the grand window of the dining hall, which revealed the blue moon-lit sky creeping behind some of the dark storm clouds. Arches and spires made their way to the ceiling, accompanying the fine wooden floor and dark, beige-hued plaster walls with fine engravings and trims all about. The most expensive spectacle was the chandelier of shining crystals that lit up the hall with a yellow glow. It was a most cozy atmosphere, and particularly warm given the amount of muscle— both of cooked animal and uncooked soldiers.

Zephi called out Jokkam in his important moment to mess with him: “Hey, Jokkam, that platter looks wobbly. Don’t go spilling drinks on the king’s attendant.”

“You know someone sabotaged my shoelaces that day!” Jokkam delivered, turning around and using his second hand to suddenly stabilize the wobbling platter. “He’s probably the one who had tied the laces together,” Jokkam speculated, gaining control of his unstable platter to gently but persistently walk to the king’s table, which was elevated above the aged, fine floor of the dining hall. The king’s table was only one step onto a raised platform, but anyone unaware or daydreaming could stumble over the top its edge. Jokkam needed not look down— for he knew that dining hall as he knew his own body. With head straight and eyes fixed upon the king like a diligent server, he approached with the sizzling platter and saw men eager to devour.

Utensils were in hand and butted against the tabletop. The king himself, usually still robed and in a relaxed position with his hands behind his head, had divested from his formal attire this night and wore a more basic black buttoned shirt and was leaned over the table with elbows upon it. Jokkam looked across and saw some of the king’s higher-up officials. They wore an expression of impatience— the result of their gluttonous appetites, not the negligence of the servants.

Using his forearm strength, Jokkam stretched out his arm and set the platter perfectly in the center of the table. There was a poise but casual tempo and enthusiasm in his speaking. “I present to all of you the dish of the king and his attendants for this evening,” he revealed with his white shirt perfectly buttoned up to the neck. He glanced down discreetly to ensure he had not tainted the white of his shirt from his sojourn in the underground. Motioning with his hand rather eccentrically, Jokkam directed: “You can see we have some exquisite oxen steak here. These oxen came from lands afar—”

“How do you know where these oxen came from, Jokkam?” the king interrupted— about the only person who was always allowed to interrupt.

“My lord,” Jokkam addressed him formally with a slight bow, “I can only go by what I hear.” Jokkam altered his demeaner to be one of obviousness. “I did not go and rope these oxen myself and lead them here… unless that be my lord’s wish?” Jokkam, in his peripheral vision, saw some of the king’s officials look at him and then at the king, perhaps with a sense of scorn at Jokkam but intrigue at the king’s demeanor. Jokkam’s attitude wore a slight smirk, and he was fairly sure the king was just giving him a hard time for his own humor.

The butt of the fork of the king was tapped a few times upon the table as the king beheld Jokkam. After a delay, in almost an instant, the king broke out into laughter. It seemed not as if there had been any transition from his straight face to his laughter. “Ha-ha!” he hollered. “You are quite a character, Jokkam! It should be fine with you staying here in the castle. If you’re out there roping oxen, who is going to serve all the food? We need you for that.”

Thud. Jokkam was down in that basement again, with his face smacked upon the floor, right into that very puddle. Rubbing his head then tugging with his arm, there was a chain tied off to a rusted hook against a wall that appeared to have been built in a mad rush. “Get me out of here,” he cried in his anguish, tugging with both his arms on the chain, tearing a deep gash into his wrist. Somehow or other the key to the cuffs was before him. Grabbing it, he beheld its shine that seemed too artificial for the dark basement. He flung it across the basement, hearing it ding a few times until it was no more within his reach nor sight— lost forever. “No key,” he declared, clawing at the wall. He then looked upon his hands: dirtied and bloodied. He shrieked. He rammed his shoulder into the wall to crumble it by force.

His tense shoulder had been patted by the king audibly and firmly. The king then grabbed ahold of Jokkam’s forearm and shook it, but then he brought in his other hand and shook it with twice the vigor. Jokkam knew not how to react but tried to stiffen his arm a bit as if he should do at least something. “Thank you for your service,” the king said and smiled. Jokkam smiled back at the king but with a slight twitch in his upper lip.

Fireballs and lightning filled the sky as swords clashed in a climatic battle. Though it was nighttime, those red flares cast a light upon the city folk as if the sun had risen and set in a matter of seconds— only a gleam to be seen, so easily missed. Terror was found in all directions, and Jokkam meandered about the streets, miraculously avoiding all collision with deadly objects, bearing his platter of fine foods. “My liege,” he bowed, setting the platter atop a crooked, stone table in a room that no longer had much of a roof, but just a makeshift covering. Just then the table was smashed into bits, smoldered by a fireball. A set of eyes leered at him: his one job he had failed.

“Jokkam,” the king addressed, snapping him out of his trance. The king, most informally, pointed at his fattened belly, signaling with his eyebrows to Jokkam. After seeing the wrinkles upon the king’s face conveying an authentic patience, Jokkam abruptly swung the platter lid around his torso, skillfully hooking it in some concealed manner over his shoulder, and laid the platter firmly upon a low wooden foldable table, rushing to distribute the foods while maintaining an eloquence.

He then poured in the beer to those with their baffled countenances. One of the officers beckoned for a bit more. Jokkam gulped and tensely looked back to the kitchen momentarily, filling his stein a bit more. Jokkam bowed and grabbed the empty platter, squeezing between two officials to reach it. Placing it to his side, he turned around to return to the humid kitchen.

His name was called out once more, though. Halted in his tracks, Jokkam did a dance-style spin-around and took a couple of paces back toward that notable table. The king complimented: “You are a fine servant, Jokkam.” Jokkam bowed slightly and then corrected his flippancy and bowed more deeply. Spinning around at last, he started his way eagerly back to the kitchen, teary-eyed.

Jokkam croaked, seeing before him the stone table in ruins. The food was all about the floor— not just blackened from charcoal burns and fire, but smothered with the soot and ashes of war. He beckoned those figures who stood before him to see to his innocence. The tent had been torn from above, such that the danger ought to instill fear, but everybody jeered at him for the food that was scattered upon the dirtied ground. In the middle was a puddle of juices and sour wine that had also spilt. Another fireball came and barged into the last wall standing, causing everything to go white and black in upheaval.

* * *

The atmosphere had been altered as he reemerged into the kitchen. There was a tension of sorts, for Jokkam had trotted those aisles of burners, knives, pots, and pans for ages, and he could detect an air of fear. In some regards, there was more sound, and in others, less. It was like an orchestra that performed but was off key.

“So we have come to it,” he uttered. He remained stationary, awaiting this conflict to come to him. Glancing beside himself, he saw a sharp knife lodged into the wooden countertop. “I’ve told them to quit leaving them like that,” he said pettily. Yanking it out, he tapped it atop the counter and then glided it along that surface, tracing out a straight white line in the softwood. He then halted the blade and removed it thus, like the timeline of a lifespan suddenly ended with no forewarning.

There was a great deal of steam in the kitchen, too— far too much steam. Perhaps the servants had shrouded themselves in some external comfort with the unknown consequences of the tragedy. Jokkam bore a rather ugly expression as he tallied the inefficiencies he witnessed in the operations. The oxen smelled overcooked, too— his nose tingled at that charred smell from afar. That was the last provocation to finally lure him into action.

Still holding that knife, he briskly made his way over to the oxen cage. It was yanked open by a rather inexperienced servant, who had coughed. Perhaps nothing was amiss after all— no turmoil, but just a simple mistake from a newcomer. The blazing heat distorted all colors in the nearby vicinity as the hot sun does upon a desert floor. Jokkam had hoped this error was perchance a property of the servant’s naivety, but as his eyes swelled and he set his gaze in another direction, he could see Cateline murmuring with two others.

In fact, there was a lot of murmuring. Soup was stirred without an eyeball on it, for attention had been redirected to some socialization, as a seamstress in town would continue with needle and thread while watching a spectacle out of a crummy old window. The needle continued to weave about the kitchen, and some dismay had been sown; Jokkam could sense it. “I am no stranger to this,” he quietly spoke.

“I don’t care,” came a more overpowering voice from the entrance to the kitchen. “I need it now.”

Jokkam turned and looked upon the figure. It was Reuben, holding a tray to his side and bearing a few steins in his hands. The steins, though, were upside-down, and nothing was pouring out: they were emptied. Jokkam, intaking all of this at once, observed Elizabeth nearby preparing dinner plates more finely dressed and with larger quantities than was typical. Every facet of dinner service he had scrutinized, and it seemed as though it was being run by a totally different crew. Some things were too perfect, and others too imperfect.

More noise was heard from Reuben. Eventually Zephi, boisterous and unrestrained, came from out of the rear pantry and let the oil spill. Cut went the sickle, and the pot tilted and dumped everywhere. The truth had been revealed. Jokkam had anticipated it, for he had known of it before it had come; but an anticipated truth is not necessarily simpler to bear than one of surprise.

“We are completely out!” Zephi announced to the whole room. This brought about gasps of horror from a variety of folks. Jokkam deemed that Zephi had been the one tasked with being the last possible hope: the rescuer who could possibly get lucky, given his energy and eccentricity. The last fatal attempt had bombarded into defeat, and what energy had remained in the room— and that which had been heightened, too— retreated into some interior spasms of anxiety. There was less movement from the servants, but hearts nearly beat out of their chests.

Jokkam swallowed and then dutifully approached Zephi. “What is out?” he acted dumbfounded.

“It’s the beer— completely vanquished, not a barrel remaining.” Jokkam saw the whites and reds of servants’ eyes as he had never seen before.

Jokkam stabbed his knife into the wooden countertop— precisely in the manner he had asked others not to— and rubbed his hands across his face and through his hair, letting out an emphatic breath. Crossing a leg over and leaning onto the counter, he remained rather casual and did not say anything, though evidently everyone had expected something to come from him.

“Well?” Zephi prompted.

“You are sure about this?” Jokkam beckoned, scratching the table.

“Boy, oh boy, Jokkam; I just went down there and checked, and there is not a barrel left!”

“I know,” Jokkam confessed. A pin needle could be heard dropping. Even the meats seemed to no longer sizzle, for all became silenced. Whatever poor servant was trapped in the coal room behind the burners stopped shoveling, as if he had been a witness to that remark, too.

Reuben at last reproached his friend with a disheartened appearance: “You knew?” he demanded an explanation.

Waning not, Jokkam revealed: “This is the ruin I had spoken about. There is no use resisting a sinking ship, so I figured we would play fiddle and harp until we had sunken deep.” Jokkam shrugged.

Kur came from the side, hoping to prevent stones from being chucked at Jokkam. “What are we going to do about this, Jokkam? I reckon you’ve had time enough now to consider what route we are going to take?”

Some of the other servants moved in closer to the huddle— not necessarily to engage in a solution, but perhaps for protection.

“We are screwed,” doomed Amira, a softspoken servant and mother. She shook her head depressively: “This is going to produce an outrage.”

Jokkam, who now inched closer into the circle, unsure if he was the one in charge or the outsider, rubbed his chin and denied nothing: “I am the one to blame. I suppose people will have to just carry on with the night without it.” With some sort of pomp he remarked, “I’m able to do it.” He dismissed everyone to get back to work, but his way was blocked, preventing him from departing the meeting.

With arms folded, an adversarial servant, Felkor, barred his path: “We want you to go out there and tell them— inform them of what you’ve done.”

“Pff,” Jokkam disregarded. “Fine— it has to be done. It will be a disappointment, but it’s not that big of a deal.”

“There will be an outrage,” Amira repeated. Something about her regular tenderness and quietness, contrasted with her present hysterics, made people consider her proclamation to be prophetic or something.

Jokkam finally responded to her with some arrogance: “Give me a break. What are you saying?”

“She is saying the truth,” Felkor remarked, pulling that knife out of the wooden countertop to possess it himself, spinning it around his fingers. “I’ll go fetch a large barrel myself.”

Amira elaborated, “There will be violence.” There was a crackle in her voice, and her pinkish cheeks turned into a deeper red of worry.

Jokkam beheld this statement with contempt, and he really questioned it: “violence?”

“Yes, Jokkam! What is there to not understand?” She said in the most irritable way she could given her naturally sweet, amicable voice.

“These are soldiers!” he stated. “Who are they to get angry over some missing alcohol? Is it not their duty to deny themselves and offer their very lives as a sacrifice upon the battlefield?” Someone else raised a hoot but was cut off by Jokkam, who wouldn’t listen. “What ever happened to temperance? Are the chief virtues no longer embodied by our fighting force that they are willing to throw a fit over some missing alcohol?”

Jokkam then stepped away from the huddle and looked out at the dining hall behind the heads of stiffened servants. Everyone in the huddle stared at Jokkam, who turned his attention back and exclaimed: “That’s not how the knighthood is supposed to be!” pointing his finger shakily out the door toward the soldiers.

Amira, apparently the designated speaker at this point, beckoned: “Jokkam, let’s leave the soldiers alone and just get them some more beer. Perhaps you need a rest— it seems that Felkor has willingly volunteered to take on this role of going to get the barrel.”

“No, no, I don’t need rest,” Jokkam assured her. “It’s not that— it’s really not that big of a deal. I just hate to see all of you struck with fear— there is nothing to be afraid of. They are soldiers of our kingdom, and while they may be considerably wild, I will bet you that the worst which will come of any unintended prohibition will be grumpiness. If they can’t survive without another beer for the night, how are they going to withstand the winter chill in some rotten trench?”

“Let’s get past your ego and move onto an actual solution,” suggested Felkor.

“My ego!?” Jokkam fought. He snatched a carrot and bit into it, crunching so obnoxiously loudly. “This is not my ego; this is just realistic conversation. Open your eyes—” he swallowed his veggie, “why have we gathered in such grief?”

“Because this is a big deal!” Felkor perpetuated. “Why are you so obstinate?”

“Fear-mongerer,” Jokkam called him, as if he had been waiting to pull that one out.

“Why are we even seeking Jokkam’s permission, anyway?” Felkor deemed him a waste of his time. “Just go get a barrel; what is he going to do? We don’t need him to give us the approval.” There were nods of heads in agreement with Felkor. Even the coal was shoveled into a burner, as if to symbolize a nod of communication from that isolated boy.

“There are none,” Jokkam broke down his idea. “It’s Saturday night, and the shops aren’t open.”

“There are more shops. I know a place— Mako’s place. They have liquor and are open Saturday nights.”

“You would know,” Jokkam snarled.

“Face it— your operation is a disaster. Simple solution— go get more. Do you have to make it so complicated?”

Jokkam retaliated, “Nobody asked my approval, and I wasn’t planning on giving it nor rejecting it. Obviously you all must take some interest in what I have to say because you are all standing here like penguins as I ramble. Look— I don’t think of you all as penguins; in fact, I love penguins; I truly do—”

“How did you even let this happen in the first place?” Felkor demanded.

Jokkam defended himself: “I don’t know! I swear I had purchased another barrel this week; I swear! It’s just gone and vanished! It’s probably been stolen.”

“The cellar gets locked,” Felkor argued. “You are the key keeper.”

Kur approached Jokkam and gently grabbed his arm, speaking on his behalf. “We are going to go get a barrel. Don’t mind Jokkam getting a little worked up— it’s been a long night.”

“There are no barrels,” Jokkam repeated.

Felkor raged, “Yes there are you— you— man I have to get out of here; there’re children around.” He brushed his shoulder and scowled. “I’ll have to insult you later,” he promised.

“One more word from you and I’ll have you thrown out of here,” Jokkam pointed the finger at him, even jabbing it into his chest. Felkor pressed his forehead up against Jokkam’s, and some of the women had to break up what could have potentially become a violent quarrel.

Steaming hot, Jokkam insisted, “I testify, I swear I had bought the barrel, okay? Before service tonight I had looked all over and it was gone. Perhaps God has hidden it. Maybe He’s trying to sober up those drunkards out there so that they can actually lift their glued behinds off their horses to fight a real battle.”

From his controversial remarks, multiple conversations had arisen, many seemingly directed at Jokkam, but others carrying disagreements among the servants. He couldn’t even handle one conversation, let alone three directed at him. Jokkam had just about had it. He was going to shout, but decided to silently slip away from the party.

“Where are you going?” Reuben drew everyone’s attention back to Jokkam.

“I’m going down into the cellar to get that barrel,” Jokkam said so plainly, as if it was just a routine trip.

“It’s not there!” Zephi hollered.

“He already checked. You said you had, too!” Felkor reminded.

“It must be my ego then!” Jokkam sarcastically mocked. “I’m going to get it.”

* * *

Jokkam descended back into the cellar. He had no particular interest in actually searching for any of the alcohol. He sought only to shut himself in. He even blew out the candles that had been lit alongside the staircase as he made his way down. Scrunching up against something that he knew not but felt wooden, he wept. He could still hear the faint dropout of the arguments from upstairs, and so he pressed his skull against something and blocked the rest of the sound with his shoulder.

A drip noise could be heard nearby the puddle that he had stumbled into earlier. It was rather melodic— enough to lull him into a drifting rest. He saw wide grasses and rolling hills. The sun was intense and created a rippled illusion across everything he looked at, such that the ground appeared to be rising and falling like the waves of the sea in a hurry. Ah, the sea! Underwater everything was muffled. He envisioned a small canoe of some men, cloaked in regality. A canopy protected the canoe from rain and sleet. They chowed down on some fine fish filets and leaned against the sides of the canoe, golden rings on their hands, adorned with medals.

Suddenly, the canoe was launched into the air and hurled over. The men, strong in appearance, cowered in the water— incapable of swimming. The sea was not vicious, but it tamed itself into a perfect stillness like that of a glass of undisturbed water. The men, humiliated, sank deeper into the sea, bubbles bursting at the top like fireworks to denote the last breaths they would ever take.

The canoe bobbed and turned upright again, and thrown atop it was a woman who had been scarred. None other than Jokkam himself had heroically brought her forth from the strangulating depths. The woman coughed and heaved, and Jokkam mounted overtop the canoe with a thud of his head onto some ridiculous sculpture that had no place being nailed to the canoe. The sculpture was that of a devilish snake with its tongue sticking out. It seemed to perpetually bear some hatred. It was cloaked in everything of fashion and wonder: fine tapestries, jewelry, and other trinkets. Jokkam harbored an utter disdain for it, but then he gazed down at the sopping wet woman in her white tunic.

He pressed down upon her chest multiple times until she had come to. She was beautiful. She was Cateline. She had been defiled— bloodied and beaten. Embracing her, he assured her that her person would be healed, for he was there. He cast a gaze down into the waters and saw the last bubble surfacing from the fattened men who had plunged like anchors down to the seabed to lie in death. He let it not even dwell for a second, for he punched his fist into the water and let it pop.

Looking back at Cateline, though, she was dead. Horrified at what had happened, he backed up and tripped over the statue, tumbling onto his back and clunking his head. He was a bit delirious and saw a whirlwind of stars. Rising again, he observed that the canoe was amidst a lake of fire, floating down and coming to the end: falls of fire. No longer was she in the boat. Where had she gone?

“Help! Help!” Came a voice screaming. Jokkam cast a glance over to the side and witnessed those wicked men— huddling now in some other frightful, eerie boat. They all pulled at her and gnashed their teeth. He couldn’t watch; he hid one eye in his arm as one would from a devilish sin, yet he painfully squinted the other in an angelic act to not forsake her in his heart. Her wails reached over the fiery pit.

“I can’t!” he cried out, body shaking in fright.

“Swim!” somehow a voice came with such clarity. It was not her voice. He knew not what it was. He looked down at the fiery lake with a terror. Upon a glance at it with scrutiny, though, it was actually water. Confused, he peered more intently, and the deeper he looked and remained fixed upon it, some fire deep within seemed to manifest, such that everything seemed to him like roaring flames.

“Aah!” came a cry again.

He panicked and clawed at his face, whimpering as he maneuvered his body to and fro within his little safe canoe, as if to stumble upon a miracle. Suddenly, he tumbled as his canoe was hurled over the firefall and down into the depths of magma— the abyss not of darkness, but of concealed light: an evil light.

That light emerged and nearly blinded him. Covering his eyes, the shadowy figure stood there. He looked for wings, expecting Satan to be coming for him. “Jokkam!” Kur called out from the top of the stairs.

Jokkam had awoken and cried out, seeing some visibility now down in the underground.

Kur called out again: “Jokkam!”

Jokkam, terribly distraught, grabbed a crowbar and beat his own arm with it twice just to prove he could still suffer pain.

“Stop, Jokkam!” Kur hurried down the stairs.

“I’m done, Kur! I’m done with life!” He beat the stone wall with this crowbar repeatedly. So great was his ire that Kur remained two or three steps from the bottom, withholding any further words to Jokkam.

In his rage, Jokkam began beating every object that he could. The crowbar made its way into a wooden barrel and plunged right through— and out poured beer. It gushed and flooded onto the floor, weaving its way toward the drainage. Jokkam halted and watched it like a river of fire. The barrel bore a simple label: TURNIPS.

Kur, too, witnessed this, and he deemed that it could be saved. Jokkam, though, did the unthinkable: he whacked another hole or two into it.

“Jokkam!” Kur cried out.

The barrel was long gone now, and Jokkam seemed to be, too. He cried like a little baby. Kur approached him and hugged his friend, telling him it’d be okay. The crowbar fell to the ground. “It’s okay, Jokkam. It’s okay! It’s just alcohol. Man,” he tried to lighten the situation, “I thought you were totally recollected there. As I said, you didn’t seem very worried.” Jokkam retreated from Kur’s consolation, pushing him aside gently.

“It’s not the alcohol, Kur… I don’t care about the alcohol.”

“Wh— what?” Kur sought clarification.

“It’s never been about the alcohol… something happened.”

“What? What happened?” Kur asked. He licked his lips and gazed upon his friend, who raised not his head.

After an unnerving daze, Jokkam shook his head, as if he couldn’t explain it. Words were too hard for him to produce.

Kur eventually sat his butt on the ground so that he was more within Jokkam’s downward gaze. This humility drew Jokkam’s attention, and at last he finally came to it. “I want to paint.”

Kur, completely startled and dumbfounded, did not even respond at first. He had to restrain himself and reprocess what Jokkam had said to ensure that he wouldn’t say anything completely unintelligible, but he verified it: Jokkam had just said that he wanted to paint.

“I want to paint an image,” Jokkam now expanded. “Imagine the glorious knights who we laud so highly— who we honor for their chivalry.” He visibly shuddered. “Imagine them, Kur,” he began to choke up. Jokkam got down to Kur’s level, pressing his hands against the hard, stone floor so as to raise himself to enough courage. “Seizing an innocent woman. Raping her. Hollering about it.”

“That’s…” Kur assessed, “a terrible image.”

“That’s the image, Kur.”

“Jokkam, you don’t need to get worked up over these visuals, though. You had a bad dream or something—”

“No.”

“What do you—”

“No. It happened. I overheard it at the beginning of dinner service as I had stumbled into near distance of a conversation amongst some of the prominent knights. I can see his face… I can see her face…”

Kur was speechless.

Jokkam continued: “Don’t even try to console me, Kur.” Kur respected this and did not say anything, allowing Jokkam to process everything. After a great delay, Jokkam rose with an appearance of vehemence and latched his hands, bereft with bulged veins subtly seen in what little light had snuck in, and lifted a massive barrel and launched it deeper into the dark corridor of the basement. “Agh!” he screamed. Kur rose in alarm and fear. “I did nothing, Kur… I did nothing.”

Jokkam punched the wall with his fist multiple times. He gazed upon his bloodied knuckles and dirtied hand. “Who am I,” he looked up, as if to pray. “Who am I, God? I feel cast out from heaven’s sight. Perhaps he was right: ‘Who’s going to serve all the food?’ ‘Who’s going to serve all the food?’” he mocked. He sniffled and wept some more. “They will see: just watch.” He gazed up at the light from the cellar door. “A war against many— a man of one.”