10
A surprisingly tight, low-ceilinged room opened up beyond the bathhouse's entrance. The air was hot and heavy with moisture. Globe-shaped lanterns of yellow stained glass cast a soft, insistent glow about the place. On the floor was a tile mosaic of waves crashing upon a shore, and on the walls hung ornate tapestries depicting bathers along silvery pools and rivers. A short reception desk of smooth and polished marble stood on the opposite end of the room. It was flanked by a pair of staircases that proceeded up past the low rafters; in turn, below each timber staircase was a door that led off to God-knew-where within the immense bathhouse.
Classy, I thought. Certainly different than what I had imagined – a kind of dank, brooding bathing mausoleum in the Roman style. Of course, this was but the reception area. For all I knew, the people of Hyrule washed with sand and giant maggots.
Knots of people gathered about the waiting area, either on benches about the walls or standing in line before the desk. Oloro's signature hint of sulfur was joined by a none-too-subtle miasma of body odor, cloying perfume, and some kind of spicy incense lit in a vain attempt to cover up the smell of pre-washed bathers. Conversation warbled through the reception space like tidewater.
It was from one of these groups of folk talking in low tones that a form, round and slightly quivering, detached and moved toward us.
"There ya' are!"
Tash Lon wore worry on his face poorly. It crinkled the edges of his eyes and drew his lips tight, making him look about ten years older than I suspected he actually was. He surveyed us as one might survey bearers of dire news.
"Father," Malora sighed. "We ain't late, are we?"
He shook his head. "No, no. Just with . . ."
"Oh."
"Aye."
Father and daughter stared at one another for a moment, abashed. It had been a long day, and I was getting a little irritated with such interludes.
"So, Tash," I said cheerily. "How's this work, man? I can't say that I've ever been to, uh, a bathhouse." It only took a half-second's worth of bewilderment to continue, "Like this one. I've never been to a bathhouse like this one." I forced a smile.
"Aye?" Tash rubbed his nose. "Ah, well. Don't worry about it. I'll take care of the particulars." He gestured at the loose line leading to the front desk. "C'mon, then. I couldn't buy ya' a tub on account o' you not bein' here – what with all the demand an' such – but I know a fellow up in the front o' the line."
We followed him through the waiting area and toward the desk, where a pair of men in finely-tailored tunics and black pantaloons stood conversing. They were about third in line, preceded only by a reed-thin woman swallowed up in green robes and a gaggle of jostling, dirt-smeared teenagers. Tash walked up to the pair with a jovial, familiar smile.
"Gentlemen!" he announced. "This here is my daughter, Malora Lon, an' the young fellow I told you about earlier."
The first man, roly-poly about the middle but strangely thin-faced beneath his scruffy blonde beard, stepped forward and bowed with one hand behind his back. "Young lady Malora," he said, genteel as a Southern dandy.
Behind him came short, muscular fellow. He looked to be in his early thirties, clean-shaven and roughly handsome beneath a mop of brown hair. His intense eyes, brown as turned soil, took me in for a moment. Without another word, he bowed and repeated his companion's greeting. Malora executed the same kind of curtsy she had used on the loquacious shopkeeper, this time without any mockery in it. Her movements were less precise, full of nerves, and somewhat painful to watch.
The two men now turned to me, neither one of them saying anything. Then, each took my arm as Tash had done the day before, grasping it just below the elbow. As they did, they introduced themselves in turn as Mohan Smythe (the bearded fellow) and Rickard Tiller (his younger, burlier counterpart).
"Mister Smythe and I have had occasion to trade breedin' stock," Tash said proudly. "An' I believe Mister Tiller is the son o' Count Raymond Tiller, o' the east parts of the valley. I done some business with him a few years back. Tried to bring in some fruit trees for the ranch. Most didn't take, but hey – worth tryin', huh?" He laughed with bravado.
Neither Tiller nor Smythe took their eyes off me as Tash spoke. They inspected me as one might inspect a strange new draft animal. I saw Smythe linger on my ears, creases radiating from the edges of his lips.
It was Rickard Tiller who spoke. His voice was colloquial, but measured as a knife. "An' where do you come from, outerlander? Strange times for a for'ner like yerself to appear as you supposedly did."
I bobbled the question in my mind, unsure of the best way to answer. I settled on, "Far outside Hyrule. I come from – I mean my home is, uh, probably on the other side of the world."
"Probably?" Tiller's eyebrows rose incredulously.
Ahead, I could see the thin woman slide a pair of gleaming green rupees across the reception desk. The clerk who took them was a wide, grinning goron dressed in what looked like a kind of jerry-rigged suit.
I stammered, "I, I don't really –"
The clerk handed the woman something unseen and she hobbled away from the desk, toward the right set of stairs. As she did, Malora interjected, "Good sirs, do you mind if we go ahead of you? It has been a very long day, and our friend Linus has injuries that need soaking."
"Aye, we heard you fought off a pack o' snout raiders," Mohan Smythe said, smiling and raising a hand to stroke his beard. "And by your lonesome, too. That true, son?"
I nodded slowly.
"By Din, sir!" Smythe laughed. "You go on ahead of us, then. All respect to anyone wi' the stones to take on the enemy's raiders by himself. We need more like your sort, stranger. The Three bless ya'. Will we see more o' ya', then?"
Though I nodded absently, I had a feeling that I would never see this man again.
Rickard Tiller still regarded me with open suspicion, but he made no attempt to block me as Malora quietly took my hand and pulled me before the reception desk. Behind us, Tash said some low, terse goodbyes and then pushed up to join us. The goron clerk shuffled slightly, as if in discomfort. Based on the goron's size and girth, I took a wild guess that this was, in fact, a "him." His odd, insect grin never wavered.
"Welcome to the world-famous Oloro Bathhouse and Resort, sirs and lady!" he said in a friendly baritone. "What can I do for you?"
"Oh, aye. Hello again." Tash achieved a brief, businesslike smirk. "Ah, I already bought meself a place up on the third, but these two," he gestured at Malora and me, "need soaks too. There room left?"
Behind the clerk was a very long, very tall wooden rack. On it hung dozens of pieces of carved wood, stained dark and painted with Hylian symbols. They were arranged in very precise rows. Tokens of some sort. The attendant didn't even need to look at the blank spaces where absent tokens meant occupied baths. "We still have room on the third floor, sir. How many basins would you . . .?" He trailed off with a buzzing little hiss. I think that he eyed Malora and me then, but without any pupils to go by, I couldn't be sure.
With a hint of exasperation, Tash said, "Aye, two tubs. Two different tubs, thank ya' kindly. I'll pay."
And so he did, fishing out a large purse and tossing two shiny red gems onto the desktop. They made a fine, musical sound as they landed and skittered to a stop. Up this close, I could see that the rupees were embossed with a carved seal in their centers. The pale light played off its edges, revealing a very familiar design – a stylized pair of wings spreading triumphantly from symbols resembling the body and talons of a thunderbird. What wasn't familiar was the lack of a Triforce symbol between the wings. Instead, there was a single eye rimmed with what looked like a sliding teardrop.
The familiar becomes unfamiliar. I smiled slightly, with a kind of whimsical despair. Everything I knew had taken on aspects of the uncanny. At any moment, understanding could become deepest confusion. God help me.
The goron took the rupees in one hand and rummaged about somewhere beneath the desk with the other. He came up with two green rupees clasped in his stubby fist. "And your change, sir," he said brightly. He turned to the rack of tokens, seemed to stop and consider, and then grabbed two adjacent pieces from the third tier. He handed the tokens to Tash. "Enjoy your bath, sirs and lady."
Before I knew what was going on, the three of us had turned from the desk and were marching toward the staircase on the left side of the entrance hall. We mounted the wide, solid stairs and proceeded into the upper reaches of the bathhouse.
"How many levels does this place have?" I asked as we began the climb.
"Four main ones," Tash answered. "Plus a basement or two, I think. For all the pumps an' tanks an' such they use to make all that water good for bathin'."
"Do they really have that many customers?" I marveled.
"Oh, aye, aye." Tash chuckled dryly. "An' a lot o' different kinds o' baths. On the first an' second floors you got the basic baths. Mostly shared, y'know. For folk who don't have much money to pay and don't mind seein' another man naked now and then. It's fine, o' course. For all the farmers an' such o' the town. And they keep the men's an' women's baths separate. We ain't hedonists." He winked at me awkwardly.
We came to the second floor. An alcove opened out to our right, lit by flickering lanterns. A goron attendant stood next to a pair of doors that presumably led off into the vast communal baths mentioned by Tash. Before us, the stairs continued on and upward, tunneling into gloom.
I couldn't help but note that, away from the unwashed masses, the smell of the bathhouse turned from wet and thick to wet and fairly pleasant. Like soap and sandalwood. I saw burled, polished support beams and smooth white walls. A sense of vast, well-kept antiquity exuded from the open doors and stairwells.
"Now, the third floor – that's where the private tubs are. And – oh, hello again."
A figure shuffled out of the shadows of the alcove, onto the second floor landing. Dark, piercing eyes and a wan face. A halting, awkward gait. Muttonchops and tight lips. Ingo.
I shivered.
Tash turned back to Malora and me with a playful expression. "Ingo here couldn't wait up. The fellow's all but frothin' at the mouth for a dip, eh?" He cackled and slapped his friend on the shoulder.
Ingo looked me over with the usual lack of emotion. He had doffed his usual tunic and suspenders for a terrycloth horror that appeared to be some kind of bathrobe. It was tied about the waist with a threadbare cloth belt and ended just below his knees. His ankles appeared hairy and very white in the lamplight. He suddenly looked like a cadaverous, mutton-chopped Jeffery Lebowski. It was all I could do to suppress a gale of horrified laughter.
When I saw the knot of gnarled pink scar tissue that extended the inside length of Ingo's right calf and down onto the ball of his sandaled foot, any chance of laughter died utterly. I think I made a tiny choking noise.
"Ingo was beginning to think you'd made off with our Malon, lad. That he might have to come after you." His blank expression never changed.
"Ah, Ingo. Come off it. They weren't late in comin' at all." Tash swatted the farmhand's shoulder again jovially. "Now, I was just tellin' Linus about all the sorts o' baths they offer here. All the different floors, see?" Without a break in conversation, Tash began to climb the next flight of stairs. Ingo raised one eyebrow and started up after.
Not for the last time, I considered bailing then and there. Never to return. No sir. Fuck this shit.
Instead, I followed obediently. Malora leaned close as we entered the next stairwell, murmuring, "Don't let him get to ya'. He's just . . . like that." She smiled encouragingly, though there was obvious doubt in her eyes.
Meanwhile, Tash continued to expound on the bathhouse about us. "Aye, indeed. Third floor's got the private baths. Nice ones, too. I spare no expense for friends o' the Lons, by Nayru! You're in for a treat, lad."
The stairs reached a small landing, and then turned to the right. I kept pace with Malora, right on Tash and Ingo's heels.
Here in the stairwell, soft and subtle noises emanated from the walls. Sibilant hissing and far-off ticking sounds. An occasional, gentle rush and metallic knocking beyond the plaster.
"What about the fourth floor?" I asked.
"Ahhh, there's private baths up there too," Tash said reluctantly. "But it's more than a bit pricey, eh?" He glanced over his shoulder at me. "And it's restricted to visitin' nobility, see."
Malora piped up, "But father, we're –"
"Hush now." Tash's voice dropped an octave, into a brief and frightening growl. He glanced back again, darkly. No more than a second passed and the look was gone, as if it had never existed in the first place. In its place was Tash's usual, fatherly smile.
. . . Okay. That was weird.
"Nope! A bit too fancy-pants for sorts like us, the fourth floor is!" he said with a flourish. "Big ivory tubs an' rare oils. That sort o' thing. I hear they serve the nobs drinks an' fine food as they soak, too."
"And let 'em bring up women," Ingo grumbled. "Y'know. Of a certain sort."
"Heh!" Tash laughed nervously. "No need to be crass, Ingo."
"Hey, Ingo just passes along what he hears. An' Ingo hears that the fuzzy-hat types like to go up to the fourth floor, have their baths, drink their good wine n' whiskey, and ball a couple o' whores while they're at it."
"Ingo."
Ingo sniffed. "Just passin' it along. No need to get upset."
The exchange ended as brilliant gold light flooded down the stairs. Ahead, the stairwell ended abruptly, opening into empty space. I caught sight of high rafters and steam rising through shafts of amber light.
We rose into a vast and open space. At first, it felt like a titan auditorium or gathering hall, or perhaps some cathedral dedicated to a green and loving god. A vaulted ceiling arched some thirty, perhaps forty feet above us. The floor was smooth, shining hardwood that had been varnished a handsome blonde color. The waning, beautiful light of dusk fell through immense windows and collected in great lagoons across the atrium.
The air was rich with pleasing smells: Cloves, rose petals, cinnamon, soft cologne, oleander, and something that was very like the scent of a coming rainstorm. Water pooled on stone. All sat slow and heavy on air that was thickly humid. Tiny beads of water met my hand as I placed it on the stairwell's banister.
The stairs ended in the middle of the massive room, depositing our group on a small landing circled on three sides by ornamental railing. Directly in front of us was a neat little desk manned by three figures. Two of them were smaller, likely female, gorons dressed in nondescript robes of nondescript colors. The third, standing as straight and elegant as a Grecian statue, was a tall Hylian woman. She smiled cordially as we emerged from below.
Behind the desk and its inhabitants was a short wall or divider, about seven feet in height. A closer inspection told me that this was actually an ordered row of screens, made of paper or thin cloth. Each screen depicted a stylized scene or landscape, painted in soft colors. They formed a fairly solid barrier that continued several dozen feet in either direction. Ah – so this was how they divided up the space here. Interesting.
"All right then!" Tash announced. He turned and handed Malora and I each of the tokens he had paid for downstairs. I ran my thumb over the stained wood and found that the symbol painted there was also carved into the surface of the token. The attendants watched the little exchange silently, hands folded and expressions passively polite.
We queued up before the desk three-abreast. Ingo and the Lons went before me with all the confidence of folk who had done this many times. Each handed their token to an attendant, and in turn each attendant said soft words of thanks and pointed in a general direction. Ingo stomped immediately to the left, throwing me one last glare before vanishing around the corner of the screens.
My turn, now. I stepped to the reception desk and found myself face-to-face with the Hylian woman. My hands fumbled up the token, displaying it like a magic charm or talisman. Her smile widened and her full lips spread. Teeth like pearl or alabaster. Through my awkward schoolboy glances, I saw that the attendant had ears that were longer and less curved than other Hylians. They were slender and somehow delicate, ending below hair so pale it was almost platinum. Her narrow eyes were the color of bright, beaten copper. For a moment, I stared into them unabashedly, embarrassment turning to slow wonder.
"Have you ever bathed with us before, sir?" The attendant spoke in low, sultry tones. She held my gaze without flinching.
The token danced between my nervous fingers. Those amazing, shining eyes held every ounce of my attention. I felt like I could find worlds in those eyes. "I, er," I started. The attendant blinked and said nothing, patient as a sphinx. Finally, I managed to say, "No. Uh, no. I haven't."
"May I look at your chit?" the attendant asked quietly. I complied immediately, handing the bath token over with a kind of reverence. She examined the painted symbol on it and said, "Ah. Well, it's very simple." When she looked back up, I felt a warm little thrill race through my guts. "It appears that you will be using Basin Thirty-Six. Take the right aisle here," she pointed to the right edge of the screens, "and ask one of our many attendants if you need assistance."
A presence at my elbow. "I'll help you find it, Linus." I glanced right and saw Tash. He nodded at the attendant and smiled lightly. There was something nervous there. Something anxious.
"Enjoy your baths!" the attendant said. She bowed slightly, and her metallic eyes flashed electric in the falling light.
I had been so enrapt by the tall woman's strange appearance that I hadn't even noticed that Malora had already disappeared toward whatever bathtub she had been assigned. A moment of somewhat puzzling disappointment. Tash led me away from the reception desk, around the corner, and into a veritable maze of tall divider screens. Here, they formed a tight aisle that led off down the length of the atrium. Gaps in the screens either formed intersections with other aisles or led off into what I could only assume were the private baths themselves.
It was darker here in this strange open-air hallway. Tiny candles glowed softly within paper lanterns that hung along the screens. Painted landscapes and scenes of bucolic splendor rolled past us as we made our way down the aisle. I could hear low conversation and gentle splashing beyond the partitions. Other bathers and robed attendants moved phantomlike about us. Steam and soap-smells drifted down the paper-walled avenues.
We passed several gaps in the partitions that were marked with small signs of the same color and material as the bath tokens. An old woman with thin, damp hair exited one of these in a thick green bathrobe. She trailed a thin pool of water across the floor as she passed us, smiling.
At last, after turning down one of the intervening aisles, Tash stopped before one of the gaps in the screens. Next to it was a sign etched with a symbol that I realized corresponded to the one that had been on my bath token: A square with its right side missing, several geometric hash-marks contained within it.
"Thirty-six," Tash said, sweeping his hand across the space between the screens. "Ah, there're the usual accoutrements inside. Should be nice n' clean – they keep a tight ship here, they do." He sniffed. "Meet us out front in an hour or so if you want to join us for supper. I'm buyin'."
I looked him over, feeling awkward and suddenly put on the spot. "Uh, thank you. Again," I said. "You've done way too much for me, man."
Tash shrugged. "Ye' saved me an' mine from the snouts, Linus. This an' a meal ain't half o' what I owe you. An' you're in need o' help yourself. Wouldn't be kindly o' me to just turn you out on your way." He looked down at his boots. His mustache bristled as his face screwed up in thought. "Mayhap we'll come to a day when you owe me back. Mayhap. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, eh?" He affected a goofy smile, but I could tell that Tash was not nearly as good at putting on airs as his daughter. There was something uncomfortable and embarrassed behind that silly grin.
"Anyway, I got my own bath to attend to," Tash said quickly. He raised a hand and turned back down the aisle. "See you soon, Linus!" With a little hop and a waddle, he took off down the rows of dividers.
Once more, I found myself alone in an alien place. Little by little, I was getting used to the sensation – a kind of greasy drop in my guts. The moment before stepping out an airplane. Anticipation of freefall.
I walked into the alcove beyond the partitions and turned around another corner. I found myself in a tight area hemmed in on all sides by the painted dividers. Women in grand dresses of blue and yellow to my left. Armored champions battling snarled-toothed beasts to my right. Green, towering hills like Chinese canyons stood in majestic relief directly in front of me. Paper lanterns hung in the corners. Their candles flickered at my approach, as if trembling. In the middle of it all, shrouded in billowing curtains of steam, was the appointed bathtub.
And what a bathtub! Sunk into the floor, its raised rim reached only to the tops of my ankles. The tub itself appeared to be made of carved and polished stone, falling past the hardwood floor some three or four feet at its deepest point. Two fat copper pipes arched from the floor to the right of the tub and fed directly into it. Beneath the shimmering surface of the water, I could see three stepped levels proceeding down into the shady depths at its center. The whole thing looked big enough to accommodate four, maybe even five people at a time. More like a hot tub or Jacuzzi, I mused.
Across from the monster stone tub, up against the base of the left partition, was an iron clothes rack with a small basket attached to its base. A gray-white towel was folded across the upper rack. I crossed the distance and drew my hand across it. Soft, fresh linen. A vaguely spherical lump of what appeared to be soap sat in the metal basket beneath the towel. When I picked it up, it felt soft and gritty beneath my fingers. It smelled of lemons and something sharp, like juniper berries.
I turned around to take in the whole place once, twice, three times. Fairly nice, this. The high partitions on all sides certainly summoned the illusion of privacy. High above, the atrium's rafters echoed with a soft and indefinable susurrus. Somewhere, I heard a dull sploosh and somewhere I could hear a child's laughter. The ambient light dimmed slow and sensuous.
I blinked. Fuck it, I thought. A bath is probably exactly what I need. I feel like a hobo right now, anyway.
The duffle bag slipped off my shoulder and landed at the base of the towel rack. Slowly, almost cautiously, I stripped off each piece of clothing and folded it beside the bag. Finally, I reached back and pulled the elastic band from my hair. It fluttered to the ground like a chunk of shed skin. Long, lank hairs prickled over my shoulders.
For a time, I crouched naked at the rim of the tub and bent to inspect the water within. Clear as crystal. The steam rising off its surface carried a fine summer scent with it – something like lavender. I noticed a few scattered flower petals bobbing peacefully across the water, each a different color. A nice touch. Very Martha Stewart. I dipped a toe across the threshold.
Jesus Christ, it was hot! I drew back a moment, surprised, and let my leg hover above the water. Hesitation. Oh God: What if they had assigned me the wrong tub? What if this was some goron shit right here? Something their weird pill bug bodies could take, but left humans boiled like fleshy lobsters? I tested the water again. Very hot. Yes. But . . . not that hot. I let my whole foot linger. Huh. It turned out the hot tub comparison was fairly apt – not scalding, but enough to alarm one's body at first contact.
I grabbed the globular hunk of soap from its basket, set it on the stone edge, and slid carefully into the bathtub. Down one tier, and then another. Hot, sweet water pressed in on me and rose to my shoulders. I felt my muscles twitch, and then slowly let go of the day's tension. I breathed deep and closed my eyes. I let myself fall backward, weightless, and sank entirely beneath the surface.
Warm darkness like the womb. A slowly pulsing void. My hair fanned out and swam like golden strands of kelp on an ocean bottom.
When I came back up, I opened my eyes to candlelight playing through tiny whorls of steam. I sucked a breath of it in and let the hot vapor snuffle its way about my lungs. I sat there a moment, staring into space. The warm, woolly twilight of the bathhouse.
Every muscle now felt sleepy and sated. I could feel the day's rime of dried sweat and dust soaking away from my skin. This really was pleasant. Now all I needed was a nice, tight roach packed with indica and a bottle of beer. Fucking exquisite.
I lolled my head back against the cool, wet rim of the basin. I chuckled absently, seemingly at nothing. "Fuckin' right!" I sighed.
Behind me, something stirred. I heard movement. "Linus?" A little splash. A voice floated from beyond the screen behind me – from beyond the green paper mountains and the clouds that danced about their peaks. "Linus, is that you?"
"Malora?"
I turned about, suddenly alert and self-conscious. Could she see me? Could she see through to my supposedly impenetrable little domain? I looked about stupidly, and then felt a deep red embarrassment. Of course she couldn't.
But, she could hear me. After all, it should have been obvious – the tubs we occupied were adjacent to one another. The two tokens, hanging side by side on their rack.
"Yes," Malora responded. Her voice was soft and slightly muffled. "It's me." A breath of quiet. "It looks as if we're all but bathin' together, Linus Olsen." A giggle floated through the partitions.
I smiled, relaxing once again. It was hard not to: The fine hot water worked like subtle fingers over my sore calves and lower back.
"It appears so," I said.
For the space of about a minute (though it felt much longer), I listened intently to lap of bathwater and the far-off cathedral murmuring of the atrium. Neither of us spoke. I think I heard Malora move in the next space. A low, quiet sloshing noise.
"Hey. Listen." I leaned back and closed my eyes. "I have to apologize again for earlier. I have a habit of losing my temper at bad moments like that." A dozen examples flashed behind my eyelids – words said in the heat of the moment that I often could never take back. The cloying, indelible ache of regret. "So . . . yeah. I'm sorry. I was out of line."
And then: Nothing. I felt a stab of panic. Was she there? Had she heard me? I imagined her then, hunched and naked in her own bathtub, staring at the screen as this, this stranger spoke to her. This outerlander. Was I violating some unspoken rule? Some Hylian code of conduct that –
"Earlier? Do ya' mean in the marketplace?"
I nearly jumped at the sound of Malora's voice. "Y-yeah," I said, voice quavering.
Malora laughed. The clear, honest sound of it swept away my anxieties like a cleansing tide. "Oh, Linus. You don't have to apologize. I let my father vex me and I turned it on you. I should be the one askin' your forgiveness."
"Well," I said, "I was kind of a dick. So, seriously, thank you for being cool about it. Other people . . . haven't."
At this, Malora again said nothing. That sense of unspoken tension returned to the humid spaces between the two tubs. I continued to speak then, my tired eyes sagging and tongue loose as an unfurled flag. "Hey, you know that woman out front? The one who took my token?"
This seemed to catch her attention. "Aye?"
"Did you see her eyes?" I asked, whimsical. "They were . . . crazy. She had crazy eyes."
A pause. Pensive, I imagined. "Aye. Most Shiekah do."
I sat up straight. Water rippled away from my chest and lapped about the other side of the tub. "She was a Shiekah?"
"Indeed," Malora said. "An' that's the way you know 'em. They have strange eyes. That and –"
"Their ears," I realized. I let off a tiny, wondering laugh.
"You catch on more and more quickly, Linus," Malora said. There was a smile in her voice. "So, how do your stitches treat ya'?"
I raised a wet hand and probed the area of the wound. "It's okay," I said. "Doesn't hurt much, anymore. It still itches, but not nearly as bad as last night or this morning."
"Well then!" Malora chirped, "I believe we can take those out come the mornin'."
"Already?"
"Aye, Linus." There was playful sarcasm in her voice. "The Red is a fine thing, ain't it?"
"Oh. Yeah. Ha! Awesome."
Good, I thought dreamily. I settled down in the water and said, "You know, this isn't too bad. This place."
"The bathhouse?"
"Sure. And Oloro, too, I guess. But especially here. I needed this."
A sloosh. A splish. Tiny waves on a smooth, rocky shore. "So you're enjoyin' your bath?"
"Fuck yeah," I laughed. I raised one hand and drew my fingers across the undulating surface of the water. A red petal danced away at their approach. "This is nice. It's good. Real good."
"It is good, isn't it?" Her voice was a wistful, steamy phantom. I heard water part, and Malora's voice drifted to me again, louder and fuller now . . . but still just barely above a whisper. She had moved closer to the thin divider between the baths. "Tell me about where you come from, Linus."
It took me a moment to really soak in this request. My eyelids fluttered. "Really?" I asked. "Here? Now?"
"What better place than here? What better time than now?"
"It's . . . complicated."
"What isn't?"
I considered this. Her point was nakedly valid.
"It's hard to talk about," I said. Something twisted in my stomach – but not unpleasantly. Something like nervous anticipation.
Malora's voice came even stronger now. Not closer; just louder. "Ya' seem like you want to talk, Linus. You seem like you need to talk." Frank. Forward. Pressing in with her voice, like probing fingers. "So tell me. Tell me about the other side o' the world. Tell me about a land where they have zippers but nothin' like the Red. Tell me about a place that's never seen the face o' the Demon Moon."
I nodded, even though I knew she couldn't see me. Her words seemed to wrap about my shoulders. To squeeze, ever so gently. I closed my eyes and saw her as I was, submerged up to her shoulders in hot water. I suddenly wondered at her nakedness. Whether there were freckles along her breasts. Whether she had large areolae or dark nipples. What her pubic hair looked like. It took great will to ignore the stirring beneath my own bathwater.
Yes. I did want to talk. That much was obvious. I did need to talk.
So I talked. I talked and watched the steam unravel off the surface of the bathwater and felt myself sink deeper. Felt myself let a little more go.
"I come from a place called America. Really, it's called the United States, but – shit. Really, that's not important." I slipped my fingers through the wet clumps of my hair and pulled them back. Their damp ends squelched between the rim of the tub and my shoulder blades. "If you want to be accurate, I came here from a city called Los Angeles."
"Loss-anjuh-less?"
There it was again: The tiny wrench in my stomach. A small thrill at her words.
"Yeah. Los Angeles. The city of angels."
"What's an," she drew in a sharp, frustrated breath, "ain-jell?"
Oddly, I never skipped a beat as I said, "It's like a, uh, holy spirit. A messenger of God, I suppose."
"Oh. Like a . . . like a djinn or poe, but . . . but of the goddesses?" A slick, soft rustle. In my mind's eye, I saw her pulling wet red hair away from her forehead. "Is it a holy city, then? Los Anjuhless? A city of temples, perhaps?"
I laughed. Couldn't help it – the idea was just too deliciously absurd. "Ah, no. No. It's a lot of things, but Los Angeles is definitely not holy. Some people treat it like it is, but . . ." I looked about, as if the pleasant gloom of the bathhouse could divine the words I was looking for. "Really, it's just a big city. More like a bunch of cities grouped together, actually. But it's still the largest in the country."
"Where you come from, you mean? This . . . Am-air-ika?"
"Yeah. Definitely. Certainly bigger than anything here in Hyrule."
A sound of incredulity. Raucously: "You know nothing, Linus Olsen. Hyrule may not be the biggest country in the wide world, but it's certainly the greatest. Ain't nothin' bigger than the cities here. Certainly not this Los Angeles – especially if your folk don't know how to heal or fight like us."
"Malora, about twelve-million people live there."
For a few moments, I heard only the gentle lap of water and the faint whisper-hints of other bathers. Then, Malora chuckled.
"Haha! Naaayyyyy. You jest, Linus. I doubt there're that many people in all o' Hyrule. Hylium don't contain much more than a million souls, and it's the greatest city in the world."
Now that . . . that gave me pause.
I collected myself and continued, "I don't jest. It's a big goddamn place – hand to God. Twelve-million. I ain't lying."
After several seconds of stunned quiet, Malora whistled. It was a thin, astonished sound. "That's right mad, it is. Go on. Tell me what it's like. It must be . . . very crowded."
"And expensive," I groaned. "So goddamn expensive. Overall, though? Not a bad place to live. Not that I've lived many other places, but ya' know what I mean."
"Not really."
" . . . Right. Well. Anyway – it's very hot and very dry and there are pretty much buildings as far as the eye can see. The city crowds up onto the ocean to the west. Hill country all about. Palm trees everywhere. Terrible air pollution – though it has gotten better, I suppose. The traffic sucks and it's impossible to know someone who isn't trying to make it big as a writer or an actor."
"So there are many theaters there?" Her voice was bright with curiosity.
"Mm, yeah." I decided an explanation of movies was out of order. Part of me wanted to avoid the possibility that Hyrule had some bizarre equivalent, like the lighters that had so inured Malora to my own supposed wonder. "There are. A whole town full of theaters, actors, playwrights. It's crazy."
"I imagine!"
Could she? I blinked. My body slid down the side of the tub, and suddenly all but my eyes up was submerged. I blew bubbles through my nose. A funny little gargling noise. Could she imagine? For that matter . . . could I?
As I came back up for air, I felt the tickle of droplets sliding off the tip of my nose. "Do you want to know how I got here, Malora?"
"Yes." Eager. Very eager.
I stared straight ahead. My mouth felt like it moved on a kind of fleshy autopilot. "It was night. I was in the city . . . on business. Personal business. I was walking by an alleyway. Dark. Couldn't see a thing. But I hear this voice, right? This . . . girl's voice."
Out in the aisles that stretched between the inscrutable mandala of paper screens, I heard quick footsteps.
"And she was crying for help, see? Down the alley. It was fucked up. I was fucked up, honestly. I wasn't thinking straight. And before I knew it, I ran down that alley, into the dark." I swallowed. Despite the wet air about me, my throat felt dry. "And all of a fucking sudden I'm standing on a hilltop. I'm standing there looking out over Hyrule – a place I had, I had just heard about in . . . fucking stories. In legends."
"You didn't think Hyrule was real," Malora breathed.
"No."
"And then you rescued us. You risked your life for a bunch o' strangers."
"I guess."
"Don't be modest, Linus. You fought like a demon for folk who you didn't know from Ol' Alvin." She shifted position audibly. "And all after getting' spirited here by Farore knows what kind o' magic."
I mulled on this a moment. Let the words make weird little pathways in my entranced brain. "You know what's funny?"
Quiet, gentle: "What?"
"Before I came here, I thought Hyrule was just a myth. A . . ." I almost said game. "But now? Right now? It's like Los Angeles is the myth."
"What do you mean?"
"To be honest, sometimes it all feels like a dream. Like I woke up here. Like everything that came before was an illusion." I closed my eyes and concentrated on the heat of the water, the caress of the steam. "Over the last two days, whenever I've tried to think back on Los Angeles and my life there, it's felt more and more blurred. There are moments where I don't know whether it ever existed in the first place. Everyone and everything in my life before here – before Hyrule . . . I remember it, but it feels so . . ." I found myself trailing off into slow silence.
"Strange?" Malora suggested.
"Unreal," I blurted. "It feels unreal. Like some weird lie pulled over my eyes to keep me from a bigger truth."
"But . . . if you remember it, it must be real. Right?" Malora's voice was soft but forceful. Encouraging. "And it's not as if you belong here! That much is obvious. You had to have come from somewhere outside Hyrule. You're too strange not to have."
I laughed, though there was little joy in it. "On that much, you're right."
"You must remember your family. Your friends. All the places you went and all the things you did." Her voice seemed to lean forward then. "Los Angeles is real, Linus. As real as Hyrule. I'm sure of it."
Yes. Friends . . . family . . . all those things that connected me back to Los Angeles. To the real world, as it were. To the world I had left behind.
I imagined them, then. Their faces. Stuart. Allen. Jeff. Lira. Tim. Jennifer. Rachel. Old friends, like Randall Owens and Eric Chung. Mom. Even Dad – though he was little more than a memory trapped in photographs and old rooms.
You're never going to see any of them again.
That should have stung. I should have felt tears welling in the corners of my eyes. Instead, I simply gazed up and watched the steam curl away like ghosts. Like the shedding of past lives.
Strangely, idiotically, I began to think of all the people I had met but didn't actually know: Marilyn Reed. Bryan, all muscle and beer-stink and fists. The bald, smiling girl who had poured me a shot of rum. The nameless woman who had complimented my tattoo. The clerk behind the desk of the pawn shop. The homeless man outside, begging for help. A thousand different people sliding to and fro through buses and on street corners.
For some reason, it was these images that finally summoned the real pain. A throbbing, phantom ache that spread through my chest like mercury. Liquid grief. Still, the tears did not come.
The steam rose in ribbons and in it I saw everyone and everything that I had lost. All the faces and things that were cut off from me, forever.
You're never going back. You can't. It's all gone, now. All gone.
I ached.
"Linus?"
"Hmmm?"
"Sorry," Malora said. A ghost voice. A red-haired girl suspended only in sound and imagination. "You became quiet. Are you all right?"
"Yeah," I sighed. "Yeah. It's just catching up to me, is all. Everything that's happened."
Another flurry of footsteps passed down the partitions. I think I heard something drop – a clonk of wood striking wood.
"It's been nice to talk to you, Linus," Malora said. "It's been nice . . . sharin'."
"Same here," I said. I let a grin part my lips.
A distant booming sound. Voices. Growing voices.
"Though," I chuckled, "I suppose I should actually get some soap on myself. I was goddamn filthy before this." My eyes flitted to the bar of soap, but my body seemed far too content in its current position to move just yet.
"Oh, don't be so hard on yourself," Malora giggled. "I live on a ranch. I seen things ten times dirtier than you. I've been ten times dirtier. Twenty, even."
A shout. Somewhere down the rows, there was a toneless cry – surprise, then alarm. A moment later, it was joined by another.
"Y'know . . ." Malora said, her voice very low. Very sly. "I . . . I could . . ." God, I swear I could hear her biting her lip. "I could come over there an' help ya'. Help ya' soap your –"
And then the shouts turned to screams. Voices, rising in a terrible chorus somewhere out in the great atrium of the third floor. Throbbing, high-pitched. A woman, screaming in terror, and as I bolted up –
"Linus?!"
– the scream stopped. In its place came something choked. Something wet and awful. And then there was nothing.
After a terrible, pounding moment of utter quiet, the screaming began again. Elsewhere now – out among the tubs and basins. Yelling and howling. Panic sounds. Words of confusion and horror. A cacophony of bewildered bathers, rising to see and hear the source of the commotion.
And from it all came another voice. Inaudible at first. And then it rose strong, echoing up and amongst the rafters, howling a single word:
"HERO!"
No.
"COME OUT, HERO! COME OUT, MEDDLER! I KNOW YOU ARE THERE!"
No fucking way.
"COME OUT, MEDDLER! COME OUT AND FACE ME, IF YOU DARE!"
Beneath the warm water, I felt my testicles suddenly go numb. My scrotum shrank. Every single muscle in my body seemed to spasm at once. A lance of pure, gray dread pierced my shoulders and scraped down my spine.
I knew that voice. Yes. Barking, growling, more than half alien in its delivery. It had been only a day since I had heard it – but it felt like I had last listened to its throaty tones in another lifetime. Oh God. Not now. I knew that voice, and had dreaded the possibility that I might ever have to hear it again.
The voice belonged to Karrik Fir-Bulbin.