Chương 105: Chapter 364: The Crossroads

There is a road that came from the old, broken world. One hundred and six travelers journeyed along to a place of unformed nothing. The first thing to be made were other roads. The Low Road fell away, too, and the High Road ascended. Others branched to the stars beyond or the ground beneath. The number of roads that met in that place changed as needed, but the spot they met stayed the same, and Hecate, Goddess of the Crossroads, claimed it for her own.

There, she controlled the traffic between the new and broken worlds. She spoke every traveler's language and knew the end and beginning of their travels. After first the gods and then the children of the gods made the journey, she closed off the first road. The god outside could not travel here without her permission, and no one here could leave. The passage was narrowed until only the smallest of souls could travel between, and only with permission. She allowed messages but kept a close watch on them.

There is a small shrine to the goddess in one corner, where offerings and petitions are placed. This crossroads, among all others, was a sacred place for her. It changed slowly over time, but it would always be hers. When someone wished to talk, they came here. Many of the roads faded over time until only a few were left. A grave appeared one day in another corner when one of the gods chose oblivion over exile. Over time, more graves appeared.

The goddess allowed it because graveyards and churches were traditional at crossroads in the old tales. It fit well. There is a tree at the crossroads, old and twisted with branches broken by weather and its trunk split by lightning or wrath. Several branches bear twisted ropes where men were hung like rotten fruit.

Only men who committed special crimes were permitted to be hung from the tree: Gods who betrayed their followers, highwaymen who killed travelers on a road the Goddess walked, or who killed a dog she blessed. Some have tried to burn the tree down, which bears the marks from the flames but has resisted all fires. Axes and saws break upon its bark. Bad luck has come to all who try to destroy the tree. Some died as their homes went up in flames, others when tools slipped in their hands causing accidents.

Eventually, the tree was left to stand, except for on moonless nights when a man destined to hang was brought there for final punishment. There is a public house at the crossroads, an old place built in the early times. It started as just a slab of oak held by two barrels of beer, and the brewer who made it took coins from thirsty travelers for his ale. He had been packing his two barrels of ale to a new place to open a tavern but found the road had not been opened.

So he sat on a log for a week and then grew impatient. He split the log, laid a crude plank across the barrels, built a small hut for himself, and then declared he was open for business. Few walked by and were busy with their work, but those who walked the roads were thirsty. Rain or shine, the brewer stood by his barrels and offered clay mugs of his ale. He harvested wild barley in the fields and baked some into crude loaves by a fire, but the rest was fermented to make his beverages.

The Goddess watched the brewer and decided that he would do. It would be nice someday to sit by a fire and listen to travelers, so she blessed the brewer and his cups and watched him grow. One winter, a terrible storm blew through a stand of tall oaks; some of the oldest had grown too tall, and the cruel wind uprooted many of them. One druid known to enjoy a cup of ale now and then suggested that the downed trees took up too much of the forest floor and should be cleared to make room for younger trees.

While the others set about creating oaks with stronger roots, the thirsty druid dragged the trees to the crossroads with his two apprentices. In exchange for his beer for a season, the druid planted some trunks into the ground and used the others to make a peaked roof over the brewer and his barrels. Planks were split and laid across the roof, and the brewer knew some respite from the rain and snow. The next harvest, a crew of redcaps came by.

They had sharp blades with them and claimed to be looking for work as harvesters. What they wished to harvest was debatable, but the brewer convinced them there would be no beer the next season if he were dead. He paid them in bright gold and strong ale to harvest his fields of hops, barley, and wheat and plant them again. They bound the stalks of the grain and used them to thatch the roof, making it tight from the rain.

All would have been well for them if they had hurried home with their gold, but they tarried to spend it on more ale, and their wives came looking for them. Not satisfied with a few copper coins and drunken husbands, they sent the louts back to the fields and traded with the natural spirits to hurry the harvests. The wives offered to make the brewer bread from his wheat in exchange for beer to take home to keep their husbands from straying.

Each wife had a long sharp knife hanging from their belts to carve their bread, and the brewer decided he fancied bread for his breakfast and agreed. The hobwives, masters of many things, built a hearth and clay oven to bake their bread. When they departed, the brewer had less ale and gold but kept his blood in his heart and his head on his shoulders. He also had an agreement with the clan to return each season for baking and harvesting. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road.

Report any occurrences. As the bread was cooling, four hungry dwarves from the mountains and three from the forests came by, smelling a feast. The beer was thick, and the bread was fresh from the oven. They liked the meal but disliked the openness of their table. They bargained with the brewer, and stone and wood were gathered. The dwarves of the forest wove willow branches for walls and covered them in clay and goat hair.

The mountain dwarves gathered stone to build a large hearth where men could stand and warm themselves, and the smoke could curl around the rafters, keeping the roof sound. A goat hide was slung across the open doorway to keep the wind out. Seven years passed, and travelers came and went, enjoying the bread and beer the brewer provided. The hobwives moved their clan to the nearby fields, making stout houses with large ovens.

Their husbands unhappily traded their red caps for ones made from straw and roamed no more, content with wives and beer. The dwarves multiplied and formed clans. They made their own beer where they lived but drank at the pub and traded recipes with the brewer when they traveled. One enterprising small-beard saw that the brewer was selling more than he was making and was close to empty. A trade was started between them, the ambitious young dwarf bringing barrels of fine dwarfish beer in trade from gold.

The new merchant convinced the brewer to call himself the tavern keeper since he was more than a brewer. The name fit, and as other public houses opened in the world, the men and women who ran them took up the same name. One stormy night, a wanderer with two eyes entered the tavern and sat down. The shaggy-haired man enjoyed the beer but deemed the pub too common for his liking. He sent a raven to his lazy sons, commanding them to quit their quarrels and bring nine logs of ash from the tree that grew by his house.

They did as he asked, knowing this was something important to their father and it would go poorly for them if they were slow. By nightfall, they appeared, having convinced their large friends to help. The fine wood was split evenly into boards by the skilled axe strokes of the Vikings, and a pegged wooden floor replaced the hard-packed dirt that had served until now. As fate would have it, a storm blew in, lasting nine days and nine nights.

The tavern keeper was kept busy serving ale and bread, and the old wanderer kept his sons and their friends busy covering the wattle and daub walls with new walls of ash on the inside. When the work was done, the more skillful of them took a knife and began carving a thick oak beam with intricate knotwork. The wanderer spoke to the tavern keeper and then declared a contest where the best carver would drink free for a year.

Throughout the long nights and cold days, each man worked on one of the upright beams, carving scenes of battle or the sea. On the morning of the tenth day, the sun rose high over a frosty landscape. The new ash door with its beautiful carvings was thrown open, and the light streamed in. The men inside looked at the carved pillars, judging who had done the best work, but they argued and turned to the tavern keeper. He pointed to the ceiling and placed a large mug of beer before the wanderer.

Looking up, they saw that every rafter and truss was carved with their latest adventures. The wanderer wished time to drink, so he put his sons to work cutting firewood from the logs. When done, nine logs of ash remained, and the tavern has not lacked for firewood ever since. Ages passed, and the clientele changed over time. Some offered their skills in trade, and the public house grew bigger.

Bread and beer were still what he served, but there was also a large iron kettle of stew by the fire and tastier fare for those with gold. Beers from all over creation were in his kegs, but only the best. He kept what he liked and fed the rest to his hogs. The roof stayed low in the common room, with always a peat fire burning on the hearth, but a feasting hall was built on one side and a dance hall on the other. The dance hall attracted bards.

Like the beer, the best skalds were kept, and the worst tossed to the hogs. Small rooms were available for those who wished to talk and keep their voices unheard. The Wanderer came by often but drank more, staying for days as he drank through the kegs and barrels. He had traded away an eye for knowledge that made him unhappy, and not an ocean of beer would let him forget his fate. His sons still fought, but never in the pub. The tavern keeper had grown as well, and none was Master of this house but he.

Few mortals walk the old roads and hidden ways. Some come to the public house at the crossroads in their dreams, waking the next day with the taste of good beer on their tongues. But today, a group appeared, each walking along a different road and meeting in the center.

"I don't know about you guys, but the two of us are hungry."

"The two of you are always hungry."

"I smell beer."

"I'll be happy to sit in a tavern and eat without having to serve." With all in favor, they walked to the large carved oak and ash building and entered the common room. A tall, thin man with braided black hair and copper skin greeted them from the bar.

"I've been expecting you. Sit anywhere you wish, but by the fire is best. A cold wind is blowing today. My place is yours for the night, and you are my guests. Be safe here, and your voices are unheard. Someone wishes to speak to you, and She will be here shortly."