One of the things I remembered - and enjoyed - from my mortal life was those special moments around a campfire with friends. There was something primal and grounded about the whole thing. There was sometimes singing, usually laughing, and always drinking involved. I can’t think of any other experience quite like it. I was happy Jeffrey accepted my invitation to come and sit in the American Old West with me and some others one evening. I wasn’t sure how a Void Demon would feel about this kind of interaction, but who knows what Void Demons feel about anything, really?
The evening was dark, with the cool breeze of autumn rolling over the prairie. It was a far cry from the typical night of a mortal-turned-interplanar-courier. I sat on an old stump that I had found, sipping a nice whiskey that Jeffrey had so generously found and brought along. He poured it into my camping cup and set the bottle down next to me.
Mortal John. As I recall, you enjoy this libation. As your friend, I anticipated your want and provided it. I hope you find this acceptable.
I grinned. “Well done, Jeff. I appreciate the gesture. I apologize for not bringing something for you!”
Mortal John. There is no need. You provided the invitation. I do not get many of those, so consider this a fair exchange.
“I enjoy the way you speak, Mister Jeffrey,” said Ogden, the Mountain Giant whom I knew from a few years back and had invited on this excursion. “You speak plainly and with purpose. It is refreshing.”
Ogden was ancient, and his voice was a rich, mineral vibration that felt like a forest settling into damp earth. His skin was pebbled like river-rock, his hair and long beard grey and black and spiderwebbed with quartz. He held a tree stump - nearly identical to my seat - in his massive hands, turning it over and over, delicately carving it with a great, honed stone knife.
Giant Ogden. Thank you for your words. I find plainness refreshing as well.
The old Elf, Alban, chuckled and puffed on his pipe behind his book. “We do live strange lives, do we not? A Giant, a Demon, and an Elf walk into a campfire… sounds like the beginning of a terrible joke!”
“Do not forget our mortal friend,” said Ogden. “He is our most honored host.”
“Okay, that’s enough of that,” I said, waving away the compliment. “I just like sitting by the fire with my friends. Cheers!” I raised my cup and drank deeply. They all followed suit, Ogden from a huge horn of what I assumed was mead, Jeffrey from a glass cylinder of some swirling mist that I was pretty sure was crying softly, and Alban from a golden chalice. Apparently, everyone brought their own drinkware.
Ogden continued whittling away at the stump, wood shavings and sawdust gathering around his bare, slate-grey feet. Every so often, he would hold the wood out over the fire and turn it slowly, darkening it and drying it. His long, strong fingers would blacken in the heat, but he never gave any hint of pain. I figured Mountain Giants were probably impervious to flame, seeing as they seemed to be made of rock anyway.
“Whatcha makin’ there, big man?” I asked. His people were known for their craftsmanship, and even among them, Ogden was considered a master. It was a huge honor to receive a carving from a Mountain Giant.
“A gift.” His reply was simple and rumbled like an avalanche of spider silk down a snowy hillside.
Giant Ogden. Query: What is the purpose of gift-giving among your kind? I have observed numerous communities of entities and their rituals of exchanging items, and am fascinated by the variety of cultural norms.
“Well, my dear Jeffrey, among the Brenam, which is what we are known as among Giant-folk, a gift from one’s own hands signifies great respect. But it is more than that. It is recognition of something… else. It is a deeply felt, personal thing.”
Hmmm. I see. So, no two Brenam gifts are the same.
“Decidedly not,” chuckled the Giant.
In the distance, a coyote cried, and we all looked up. Alban set his book down and cupped his hands to his mouth, emitting an eerie reply that echoed the animal. Jeffrey, to my amazement, laughed.
“What is so funny?”
Alban grinned at the Demon. “Do you think he heard me?”
Elf Alban. Your humor is refreshing and unexpected.
I looked back and forth between them. “Wait, you can speak coyote?”
Alban laughed. “My dear boy, I am Alban the Wise, the former Grand Chieftain of the Silver Clan of the Forest Elves. Of course, I speak coyote.”
Mortal John. I am Jeffrey, the Void Demon. I speak every language.
The two of them laughed again as I sat, mystified at my afterlife. I poured another cup of bourbon and sipped it. We all sat quietly for a time, listening to the sounds of owls and crickets, and the crackling of the fire. It started to die down, so I got up to grab a few more logs.
“I could just magic it, you know,” said Alban. “Actually, any of us here could.”
I shook my head. “Not the same, Al. For me, it’s about the doing, you know? The physicality of it all. I chopped the wood, I stacked it, I set the fire… It's a meditation, I suppose.”
Alban shrugged. “I suppose that makes sense. In many ways, it’s like any art form, is it not? We could just whip something up out of thin air, but where is the mystery? The contemplation?”
Elf Alban. Query: Please explain the need for art.
We all sat silent for a moment, and then burst into laughter. Even Ogden, normally stoic and reserved, boomed with raucous appreciation for Jeffrey’s question.
I do not understand. Was what I said humorous?
“Hysterical,” said Alban through tears. “And yet, a deeply profound, philosophical question that has yet to be answered throughout time. Well done, my boy. Well done, indeed.”
Ogden brushed off his creation, smoothing the wood with his rough hands as he turned it over. He leaned in, holding it to his mouth, and breathed softly into it. The sound was like wind through bamboo, and echoed in the darkness around us. His creation, a small, wooden horse slightly larger than a bread loaf, hopped up and shook itself off, dislodging the last of the sawdust. Every detail was exquisite, even the fine hairs of its mane and tail carved in rich wood grain. It trotted over to our other guest, who had sat silently this whole time.
“This is for you, my little friend,” said Ogden softly to the small, bread-loaf-sized clay knight sitting next to him on the log. “Every champion needs a steed. And you are well deserving.”
What an afterlife indeed. ❤️
Beautiful, such a restful scene. You just know things are going to ramp up from here and that it might well be the last time this group ever gets to sit all together ever again.