The Trial ofTemptation

It occurred to me, somewhere down the road from Silvyr Thigh Smasher’s farmhouse, that I had made a rather serious error in judgment.

Several, actually.

But the most pressing was that I hadn’t the faintest fucking idea where I was going.

“Right, Steve,” I said, giving the reins an encouraging tug. “We need to think about this.”

Rufus shifted behind me, kneading the back of my tunic until he had made himself comfortable. One claw remained hooked in my collar. I took care not to disturb him.

“The Cock & Swallow,” I announced. “That’s where all this started. If we can get back there, we can figure out what happened.”

That gave us a destination. In the ballads, this was generally enough to get the hero through the next verse. I could have used a signpost.¹1²2³3

The road wound between woodland and gently rolling hills. Back in Redfork, I could have identified the farms by their gates. Here, even the fences were no help, and the slugraptor seemed content to follow whichever direction I pointed him.

At the next bend, I spotted two figures beside the road. A man and a woman in white robes were smiling at me as though they’d been waiting their entire lives for this particular moment.

Their robes were stained with mud, sweat, and substances I preferred not to identify. Their smiles stretched a little too far, and their eyes were perpetually wet, as though both had recently received very good news about someone else’s funeral.

“Blessings of the Moonthings upon you!” called the man.

Oh, fuck.

Missionaries.

I considered turning around.

Unfortunately, the slugraptor had already slowed to a leisurely crawl, and my attempt to discreetly adjust my scarf had drawn far more attention to my crotch than simply leaving the damned thing alone.

“Good morning!” I called, attempting a friendly smile.

“Brother!” exclaimed the woman. “You’ve returned!”

I blinked.

“Have I?”

“Oh, what a joyous blessing!”

“Yes, well, lovely to see you both. Terribly sorry, but I’m in a bit of a—”

“We were beginning to worry!” said the man.

“Worry?”

“That you’d abandoned your sacred obligation!”

My stomach sank.

The woman clasped her hands beneath her chin.

“Surely you haven’t forgotten the Trial of Temptation?”⁴4

I stared at her.

“The what?”

“The Trial of Temptation!” they exclaimed together.

Their smiles widened in perfect unison.

“Ah,” I said. “Yes. That.”

They waited expectantly. I gave them the encouraging nod I used when I’d forgotten the next line and hoped somebody in the audience knew it.

“Perhaps,” I ventured, “you could refresh my memory?”

“Oh, certainly!” said the man. “The sacred Trial of Temptation is among the holiest demonstrations of devotion to the Moonthings!”

“Splendid.”

“One must spend an entire night alone in a locked barn with a seductive scarecrow.”

I stared at him.

“A what?”

“A seductive scarecrow,” repeated the woman pleasantly.

“Right. Of course.”

“The purpose is to resist its advances.”

I looked from one missionary to the other.

“How exactly does a scarecrow make advances?”

They exchanged a smile and let my question hang there.

“Well?”

“The ways of the Moonthings are mysterious,” said the man.

“That’s not really an answer.”

“Nor are they meant to be!” said the woman.

I considered this.

“So you’re telling me that I’m supposed to spend an entire night locked in a barn with a scarecrow that intends to seduce me?”

“Precisely!”

“And I must resist?”

“With all your heart.”

“How?”

“The Moonthings shall reveal the path.”

“Right. And what happens if I don’t?”

Their smiles remained perfectly intact.

I was beginning to hate those fucking smiles.

“Look,” I said, “this has been delightful, but I really must be going.”

“Oh, but Brother Rickon!” the woman protested. “The payment has already been made!”

I froze.

“Payment?”

“Three hundred jades,” said the man.

My mouth fell open. Three hundred. The pile in the barn.

Oh, you beautiful, horrible bastards.

“That was from you?”

“Naturally!”

I glanced down at my scarf. Perhaps they could explain something else.

“Please tell me you know where my trousers are.”

Their faces positively lit up.

“Of course!” said the woman. “Your pledge!”

“My what?”

“The trousers were offered as a token of good faith,” explained the man.

“Whose faith?”

“Yours!”

“Mine?”

“Indeed!”

He spoke with the patient enthusiasm of a man explaining the obvious to a particularly stupid child.

“Last night, we offered you three hundred jades to undertake the Trial of Temptation. You agreed before we’d finished explaining it.”

That sounded uncomfortably plausible. Three hundred jades and a bellyful of ale could make a great many things sound reasonable.

“As a demonstration of your commitment,” he continued, “you entrusted us with your trousers.”

“Why?”

“Because the garments of worldly shame must be surrendered before the spirit can be tested!”

“That doesn’t explain anything.”

“To enter the trial without trousers is to stand before temptation without the protections of mortal vanity.”

“That’s worse.”

“The fabric is relinquished, the spirit revealed!”

“You’re just saying things now.”

They nodded together. I rubbed my temples.

“So, let me get this straight. You gave me three hundred jades to spend the night in a barn with a horny scarecrow, and I gave you my pants?”

“An excellent summary!” said the woman.

She said it with the bright satisfaction of someone who had finally taught me the chorus. I was still struggling with the verse about my pants.

At least that explained something. I was beginning to suspect that whatever I’d been drinking at the Cock & Swallow should be classified as a controlled substance.⁵5

“Wonderful,” I said. “Well, thank you both for clearing that up. I’ll just be on my—”

“Brother Rickon!”

Oh, shit.

“The trial begins this evening!”

I explained that I’d been drinking, that I had no recollection of making the agreement, and that no sane person should be held accountable for promises made while thoroughly pissed. When that failed, I tried their religion.

“Surely the Moonthings value forgiveness?”

“Above all else!” said the woman.

“Wonderful! Then perhaps they might forgive me for not attending?”

“They already have!”

“Excellent!”

“Which is why they’re granting you another opportunity to fulfill your vow!”

I could return the money. The thought occurred to me, and I gave it the brief, respectful consideration it deserved.

Three hundred jades. Twice what I’d earned singing my heart out to an entire tavern, just to spend a night declining the attentions of something that couldn’t chase me without assistance.

“And once I’ve done it, I get my trousers back?”

“Your pledge will have been fulfilled,” said the woman.

I chose to take that as a yes.

Besides, I did want to know how the scarecrow managed it. Purely as a matter of practical curiosity. I’d spent years trying to persuade people to take their clothes off, and this thing apparently had a technique worth locking in a barn.

“One night,” I said. “I keep the money, I collect my trousers, and we’re finished.”

They clasped their hands in delight.

“The Moonthings welcome your devotion!”

“My availability,” I corrected. “For one night.”

I gathered the reins and turned back toward the farm with them. It was a scarecrow. I had grown up around scarecrows. Not once had resisting one required the slightest effort.

—

The afternoon passed slowly at the edge of the farm. By dusk, Steve was tethered under the lean-to beside the barn, and I’d unloaded my belongings. Rufus settled on my bedroll with no apparent interest in following me inside.

Someone had tidied the hay and installed a large wooden tub in one corner of the barn. Candles stood around it, throwing soft light across the rough walls. Back home, that much effort usually meant someone was trying to sell you the farm.

The smell suggested they hadn’t finished preparing it for inspection.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“Preparation,” whispered the woman.

“Preparation for what?”

“The cleansing.”

“Oh, good. The cleansing. Naturally.”

The missionaries finished lighting the candles and turned toward me. Their smiles softened. The man reached for the fastening of his robe, and the woman followed his lead.

“Erm.”

The robes slipped from their shoulders.

And I swear upon every miserable Moonthing in the heavens, I had never seen two more beautiful people in my entire life.

The transformation was astonishing.

Gone were the filthy, suspiciously damp missionaries I’d encountered beside the road. Before me stood a man and woman of such extraordinary beauty that I briefly wondered whether I’d suffered a head injury.

The man had the sort of body sculptors spend their lives trying to capture in marble.

The woman possessed curves that made a compelling argument against organized religion, or perhaps very much in favor of it, depending on how one looked at the matter.

I looked from them to the tub, beginning to understand the arrangement.

“Oh,” I said.

The man extended a hand.

“Come, Brother Rickon.”

I swallowed.

“Where?”

“To the waters of purification.”

“Right.”

“The body must be cleansed before the spirit can be tested,” murmured the woman.

I pulled off my tunic, unwound the scarf, and left them beside the door with my boots. She took my other hand, and I allowed them to guide me to the tub and help me into the warm water.

What followed was quite possibly the most religious experience of my life.

The woman began washing my shoulders, her hands moving slowly over skin that hadn’t enjoyed this much attention since I’d been small enough to require assistance bathing.

The man worked a sponge along my back. Warm water trickled over my chest, and their voices drifted around me like incense.

“Temptation is the mirror in which the soul beholds its own hunger,” murmured the woman.

“Mmm,” I replied.

“To know desire is to know the weakness of flesh.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“And only through surrender may one discover the strength to resist.”

“That’s very nice.”

The man’s hands moved to my arms.

“The Moonthings see all that we conceal.”

“Do they?”

“Even that which we hide from ourselves.”

“How unsettling.”

The woman leaned closer.

“Would you surrender yourself to their wisdom, Brother Rickon?”

At that particular moment, I would have surrendered my entire fucking wardrobe. Although, given recent events, I suppose I already had.

They washed every inch of me.

Every.

Fucking.

Inch.

And all the while, they continued murmuring their strange little proverbs.

“The seed of longing blossoms in the garden of restraint.”

“Uh-huh.”

“That which rises must first learn to kneel.”

“Right.”

“The faithful must know the flesh before they can conquer its demands.”

“Well, I certainly appreciate the thorough instruction.”

I was beginning to understand why their religion had survived despite its apparent dependence on incomprehensible gardening metaphors.

For a while, I stopped listening to the words and enjoyed the sound of their voices. It was the sort of effect I hoped to achieve with my own singing, though I generally had to buy people a drink first.

Then a word caught up with me.

Resist.

There was a scarecrow involved. I was supposed to resist its advances. I tried to work out how this bath contributed to that objective, but the woman leaned closer and I lost my place again.

My thoughts scattered like startled chickens.

The warm water, the candlelight, the soap, the skin, the soft voices whispering about sin and salvation—

It was all a magnificent blur.

Then the woman stepped away, and the man drained the sponge. Apparently, we were finished.

“Your body is cleansed,” he announced.

“Wonderful.”

“Your spirit is prepared,” said the woman.

“Excellent.”

“May the Moonthings guide you through the night.”

I blinked.

“Sorry, what?”

“Wait.” They were already gathering their robes. The man picked up my clothes and boots as well. “Hold on.”

“Your garments will await you outside in the morning,” said the woman. “Blessings, Brother Rickon.” She blew me a kiss while the man opened the barn door.

“May your resolve prove greater than your desire,” said the man.

“Now hang on just a fucking—”

The door closed, and a lock clicked into place.

I stood beside the tub, stark naked, absurdly clean, and possessed of a physical condition best described as an urgent matter requiring private attention.

“What the fuck?”

Something rustled behind me. I turned to find a scarecrow standing in the middle of the barn.

I hadn’t noticed anyone bring it in. Admittedly, I’d been occupied.

It stood upright in the center of the barn, its crooked frame dressed in ragged scraps of fabric, a roughly fashioned head perched atop a body stuffed with straw.

I watched it for a while. Nothing moved. I’d seen scarecrows in Redfork with crows nesting in their shoulders; this one looked about as capable of defending itself.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

I glanced at the locked door, then approached the scarecrow cautiously.

“You’re the seductress, then? Lovely evening for it.”

The scarecrow remained unmoved.

I circled it, examining the crude stitching and the straw protruding from its clothes. A poke at the shoulder and a cautious squeeze of one arm confirmed the quality of the stuffing.

“Well, this is fucking stupid.”

I stepped back. It was an ordinary scarecrow, but someone had paid three hundred jades to leave me alone with it. That was a great deal of money for an uneventful night.

I found myself watching its hands.

I retreated to the barn doors and sat with my knees drawn to my chest. From there, I could keep the whole thing in view. It continued doing nothing, obliging me to supply every horrible possibility myself.

“You’re not getting me,” I whispered.

No response.

“Not tonight.”

I watched it as the candles burned lower and its shadow lengthened across the hay. Eventually, despite my best efforts to remain vigilant, I fell asleep.

—

When I opened my eyes, a woman was sitting in the candlelight.⁶6

And gods help me, she was beautiful.

She had settled onto a low bale of hay, one leg crossed over the other. Sandy brown hair fell loosely around her shoulders. Her clothing consisted of narrow strips of some strange blue fabric that looked rather like denim, arranged with considerable confidence in their ability to remain where they were.

She watched me wake. There was no surprise in her expression, no apparent concern about finding a naked stranger huddled against a barn door. When I finally met her eyes, she smiled as though we’d been interrupted earlier and could now get back to something pleasant.

One hand rested on the hay beside her. The other moved slowly from her collarbone to her waist, then followed the blue fabric over her hip. Her fingertips came to rest on her thigh. She kept looking at me throughout, giving me ample time to notice every inch of the journey.

I noticed. I had very little else scheduled.

She tipped her head, letting her hair fall away from her neck. Her fingers traced the seam of the fabric, paused, then slid down toward her knee. There was a patience to it that made my own stillness feel increasingly ridiculous. She seemed quite comfortable waiting for me to get up and do something about the distance between us.

I tried to think of something worth saying. This had seldom been a problem before.

“Good evening,” I said.

My voice cracked on evening. A promising start.

Her smile widened. She lifted the hand from her thigh and beckoned with one finger.

Me. She meant me.

I had never been more grateful to be the only man in a room.

I got to my feet and brushed hay from my shoulder. There was rather more of it attached elsewhere, but I decided against a thorough inspection while she was watching.

“Rickon,” I said. “I’m a bard.”

She uncrossed her legs slowly and leaned forward, her hair slipping over one shoulder. I lost the next sentence somewhere between her smile and the movement of her hand as she tucked a strand behind her ear.

I had introduced myself to considerably less attentive audiences.

“You may have heard of me. The Cock & Swallow?”

Her gaze stayed on mine. I took a step closer, encouraged by the idea that she might actually want to hear this.

“Last night. Very well received.”

She sat back, bracing herself on one hand. The movement left a little space beside her on the hay. With the other, she smoothed the fabric at her hip, then patted the empty place. Her eyes returned to mine, and she waited.

I had spent a great deal of time imagining the sort of woman who might take an interest in a famous bard. It had never occurred to me that I could get this much attention before becoming one. I straightened my shoulders and tried to look as though beautiful women routinely made room for me.

“Room for one more?”⁷7

There was plainly room. She had just indicated the room. I wished, with considerable urgency, that I would stop speaking.

She shifted toward the edge of the bale as I approached, her face tipped up toward mine. The teasing smile softened into something that felt meant for me alone. At this distance, I could see how carefully she was watching my face. I had been about to tell her something else about the performance. It no longer seemed remotely interesting.

A loose strand of hair lay across her cheek. I wanted to move it aside and see the rest of her smile.

I hesitated, my hand halfway raised.

She leaned toward it, closing a little of the space I hadn’t quite dared to cross.

Well. There was an answer.

I brushed the hair aside and cupped her cheek.

Something dry pricked my palm.

I looked at my hand.

Straw.

My fingers were tangled in a tuft of straw poking through a split in a filthy sack. The woman was gone. I was standing very close to an ordinary scarecrow, tenderly holding its fucking head.

“FUCK!”

I let go so quickly that its head wobbled.

That was worse.

I stumbled backward, wiping my hand against my leg. A stalk remained caught between two fingers. I shook it off with rather more violence than was necessary.

The scarecrow stood where it had always stood. There was no woman on the hay. No smile. Nothing to suggest that, a moment earlier, I’d been trying to impress it with my professional accomplishments.

“You could have said you weren’t interested in music.”

My voice sounded very small in the barn.

I backed toward the door. The face I’d seen was still perfectly clear in my memory, which made the sack head in front of me considerably worse. Had I been dreaming? Had the missionaries put something in the bath? I couldn’t account for any of it.

One thing, however, was settled.

“You can smile all you fucking like next time. I’m staying here.”

I sat against the door and tucked my hands beneath my arms. Whatever the Moonthings had intended, they had cured me of any desire to investigate further.

—

The next morning began much like the previous one: hay, a headache, and no trousers. For a moment I hoped I’d dreamed everything that happened between the two awakenings.

Then I sat up and saw the scarecrow.

“Oh, fuck me.”

It stood in the middle of the barn, looking fit for nothing more adventurous than a vegetable patch.

I glared at it.

“You.”

The scarecrow said nothing.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

The lock clicked, interrupting my accusations. I scrambled to my feet as the doors swung open and sunlight spilled across the floor. The missionaries stood outside in their filthy white robes, smiling with an enthusiasm I was in no condition to return.

“Brother Rickon!” exclaimed the man. “A glorious morning!”⁸8

I stared at him.

“A glorious morning,” I repeated flatly.

“The Moonthings have blessed us with another dawn!”

“Have they?”

“Indeed!”

“Wonderful. Perhaps they could bless me with some fucking trousers.”

The woman stepped inside, her eyes shining with excitement.

“Tell us, Brother. How was your trial?”

They seemed genuinely curious. The woman went to inspect the scarecrow, bending close to its stitching, while the man remained beside me.

“Did you feel temptation?”

“Did I feel—”

I laughed.

It wasn’t a particularly happy laugh.

“You could say that.”

“Marvelous!”

“Marvelous?”

“Tell us everything!”

I told them how I’d fallen asleep by the door and woken to find a beautiful woman waiting for me. I gave a fairly restrained account of my approach. There was no need to repeat every word of the introduction.

The woman missionary listened intently; the man nodded along. When I reached the part where I cupped her cheek and discovered a sack full of straw, they exchanged a startled look. Then both began to beam.

“Oh, Brother Rickon,” breathed the woman. “The Moonthings have truly touched you.”

“Not as much as your scarecrow nearly did.”

“Through temptation, we discover the truth of our desires.”

“Apparently, mine involve women who don’t exist.”

“And through desire, the Moonthings reveal the frailty of mortal perception.”

“Yes, well, my perception was extremely fucking frail last night.”

The man clasped his hands together.

“Blessed are those who behold the hunger of the flesh, for in their weakness the Moonthings reveal their love.”

The woman nodded reverently.

“To desire is to be known. To be known is to be loved. And to be loved by the Moonthings is to stand naked before the truth.”

I glanced down.

“Believe me, I’ve done quite enough standing naked.”

I waited for their smiles to subside.

“So. Did I pass?”

Neither gave me a straight answer.

Instead, they offered more congratulations, more incomprehensible scripture, and a generous helping of vague assurances that the Moonthings worked in mysterious ways.

I was beginning to think mysterious was simply their word for we haven’t got a fucking clue either.

Still, they seemed pleased enough. I had survived the Trial of Temptation, and an attentive audience had improved my opinion of the experience. I could hear myself beginning to tell it better.

I now knew that somewhere in the world existed a religion whose sacred practices involved making people horny and then frightening the living shit out of them with farm equipment.

All in all, a productive couple of days.

There was, however, one final matter to settle.

“Right. My trousers, then.”

“Your offering has been accepted,” said the woman.

“They were a pledge.”

“Of your devotion. A permanent gift to the Moonthings.”

“You said I’d get them back.”

“I said your pledge would be fulfilled. And so it has!”

I thought back to our conversation. Those had been her exact words. I had supplied the part where I got dressed.

“What the fuck do the Moonthings need with my trousers?”

The man drew breath.

“Never mind.”

I decided to leave before they developed a religious interest in my boots.

The missionaries accompanied me outside. My tunic, scarf, and boots were waiting with my belongings. I put them on, taking particular care with the scarf’s knot. Rufus emerged from the bedroll, stretching as though he’d had a splendid night.

The morning was bright, the air fresh, and the prospect of putting considerable distance between myself and their theological scarecrow was enormously appealing.

I approached Steve and reached for the reins.

“Come on, then.”

The woman cleared her throat.

“Brother Rickon? The slugraptor belongs to us.”

I stopped.

“Steve?”

“If that’s what you’re calling him.”

I stared at the animal. He appeared entirely unconcerned by this development.

“He’s yours?”

“Naturally!”

“But I’ve been riding him!”

“Yes,” said the woman. “We lent him to you.”

“Lent?”

“The night before last. You were concerned about transporting your belongings to the farm.”

I rubbed my forehead. I could almost remember complaining about hauling my belongings up a road while thoroughly pissed. That did sound like a difficulty I would have felt everyone ought to hear about.

“You’re telling me I borrowed Steve?”

“Precisely!”

“And you let me take him?”

“Of course!”

“Why?”

“Because you required assistance.”

I thought of Silvyr Thigh Smasher and her opinions on assistance. Her hospitality had at least been brief. The missionaries were still smiling, and I wasn’t sure which approach frightened me more.

“Well,” I said eventually, “that explains that.”⁹9

I untied Steve and passed the tether to the woman, then unfastened my own saddle and reins. Annali had given those to me, and I intended to keep them. I lashed the saddle to my pack and gathered the rest of my belongings.

The missionaries appeared delighted to have him back.

I looked down the road. It seemed considerably longer now that I’d be walking.

That settled the last of my questions about the night at the Cock & Swallow. What I still couldn’t explain was how I’d become the sort of man who agreed to these things in the first place.¹⁰10

I supposed that was a mystery best left unsolved.

Before leaving, I made them give me directions back to the Twin Cities. I repeated each turn until the man assured me I’d got it right.

“The Cock & Swallow,” I told Rufus, adjusting my scarf. “By way of someone who sells trousers.”

The missionaries waved cheerfully.

“May the Moonthings guide your path, Brother Rickon!”

“Yes, yes. May they keep their fucking scarecrows to themselves.”

I started down the road.

Rufus trotted ahead, stopped to investigate a tuft of grass, and made me wait while he rubbed both cheeks against it. He seemed pleased with the return to walking.

For a while, I walked in silence.

I really needed to cut back on my drinking.

I sighed. Then a phrase came to me with a rhythm already attached, and I stopped walking.

“Rufus.”

My splatcat looked up.

“I think I’ve got a song.”

I cleared my throat.

I met a lass in a farmer’s shed,
She smiled, and all my good sense fled;
I cupped her cheek in holy awe,
And found her stuffed with fucking straw!

I frowned and tapped the rhythm against my leg. There was a chorus in there somewhere: moonlight, devotion, the dangers of letting one’s cock make decisions ordinarily reserved for the brain. Something they could shout back after hearing it once.

I started walking again, humming to myself. By the time I reached the Cock & Swallow, I intended to have a chorus worth trying on the crowd.

After all, if a man couldn’t turn the worst decisions of his life into a bawdy tavern song, what the fuck was the point of becoming a bard?