Don’t Take Life Too Seriously; You Might Get the Evening Off

“Well, that should do it!” Linglang wiped the sweat from his brow as he finished installing the horn that would act as an amplifier for the restroom music box.

“I’m glad to see it is finally done as well.” I couldn’t help but share his satisfied grin. This project had taken up the majority of my time, and I was riding high on the elation of finishing a demanding endeavor.

“In no small part due to your efforts.” A rare compliment from Linglang. I tried to hide a blush as my tail gave a few extra swooshes. “I never would have been able to work out a melody that wouldn’t have had people writing their section coordinator for redress. The administrators owe you a tremendous debt!” I would have smashed the box to pieces right then and there if I weren’t sure he was joking about the administrators—hate those guys. Linglang may have been an ornery old man—was he old?—but he wasn’t half bad once you learned to ignore his ubiquitous fulminations.

He could even be laudatory, and you would know you had earned it. In this case, he praised not only my contribution to developing the music but also the frequencies needed to produce it. It turned out Linglang couldn’t distinguish a tune to save his life.

Linglang activated the device, and a familiar tone rang out. “I’m no expert, but I’m still impressed you managed to come up with something that sounds like the work of a professional.” This, too, might have solicited additional facial capillary dilation if I had, in fact, been the progenitor of this piece of music.

“It’s just a tune I heard somewhere...” I looked off as the 8-bit Mario theme music rang out from the sound horn—can’t sue me here, Nintendo!

“Still, good work.” And he gave me a pat on the shoulder, a gesture that many would be too tall ever to know.

I would like to say that we both went down to the local bar to celebrate, but working hours still remained, and they would not go to waste. Still, I returned to my room/closet at day’s end with a sense of achievement to accompany the usual exhaustion. As per my custom, I opened up the mirror for my daily spy report.

For the longest time, this mirror had been less a source of intel and more a continuous side-quest generator. Thankfully, whoever was on the other end had grown frustrated and put a halt to the beleaguered agent's crazed scheming, for fear it would more likely compromise the conspiracy rather than assassinate Sistilla. So now, instead of thwarting traps that wouldn’t grace the pages of the Acme catalog, I could instead spend additional time in the lab. Doubtless, we would still be working on the music box if not for the decreased demands on my time…

As I contemplated my recent change of luck, a thought occurred to me: shouldn’t I be trying to escape, not reveling in self-indulgent contraptions for my enslaver? It seemed with all the work I had been engaged in, I had pushed this all to the back of my mind. And while I hadn’t exactly forgotten about it, I certainly hadn’t made any progress either.

Here is the thing: if not for the enslavement, I might have freely chosen to work here. When you thought about it, they offered plenty of benefits. Great learning opportunities: they taught me not only sigilary but also some things about engraving. Then there was the historical education I received from Baafa, not to mention the unparalleled access to books—outside of a proper library. Copious chances to network: I couldn’t ask for more chances to meet people, not that I was the gregarious sort. I had constant access not only to one of the highest noble families and the princess herself, but also to any other aristocrats that might pass through. The work was engaging and not only on the engineering front; plenty of disparate tasks, ranging from running errands in the village to preventing the eldest daughter from poisoning the household, kept things from getting stale.

Even on the autonomy front, I couldn’t complain much, despite the enslavement. I could not only roam about the manor but leave for the village on a whim. In hindsight, my initial worry about leaving the chateau unattended was without merit, as nobody—save Amillia—seemed to care. Not even Conroy, after dropping that outlandish amount of money to acquire my leash.

Sure, no job is without downsides. Amillia nagged constantly, and these shoes were the bane of my existence—I would still take them off at every opportunity. But the complaints were few. Truly, if a job recruiter had shown up at the Two Trees, I would have been hard-pressed not to sign up.

Still, at the end of the day, I wore a slave collar. I would not accept that, no matter how great the work was. And this collar served as more than just a property marker, but also a preventative from using fox magic... Of course, I had nearly forgotten. It was like a splash of cold water to the face. They had muzzled me, and there was no dignity in a muzzle. I needed to renew my efforts.

Right then and there, I resolved to do at least one thing every day in furtherance of my freedom, even if only scanning books in the library for relevant information. The workings of safes, for instance.

Although Linglang requisitioned much of my time, his responsibilities ventured beyond R&D, like fixing the auto-carriage when it broke down. Despite his insistence that any imbecile could recalibrate it, as he put it, nobody as yet could do so. I probably could have figured it out, but I didn’t want to deprive myself of other opportunities, and he never thought to ask me. As brilliant as he was, he could be notoriously tunnel-visioned.

Just such a situation had come up, and it had been a while since I could slip away to tutor Yogi in his quest for literacy. And so, I offered to fetch the reports from Jick and made for the door. Only Amillia had gotten wind of Linglang’s distraction and came to find me.

“Olavir! You have the day off!” She rushed over, sporting a less common white bow to go with her subdued red dress. “You can finally play Tantogo with me!” I grimaced inside.

“I’m afraid I don’t know how,” I said with as much faux remorse as I could muster.

“That’s okay. I can teach you!” Of course, she would be undeterred.

“I don’t know, Amillia; it’s a complex game. I don’t think I could learn it after only a day.” The game Tantogo was introduced to Amillia by Lucial, a game, noteworthy for its collaborative strategy focus, that bore similarities to square grid-based board games. Due to its cooperative nature, it had become popular among women even though one player played as a knight. I will admit to finding the working of such a game intriguing, but I had matters to attend to. And Amillia... Well, I still got my daily dose of Amillia during her lessons; she absolutely refused to let me part with those.

“I don’t mind. I’ll teach you today, and we can play for real another day.” I put on a dubious expression. “Don’t look at me like that. You are really smart!” I really couldn’t refute that, as all evidence supported that conclusion and only a master sophist could argue otherwise. But if I were a master sophist, that would only prove her argument. A classic Catch-22.

“Sorry, Amillia, I’m busy. I don’t get much time away from Linglang.” I tried to give her the Al Borland salute as I turned away in a hurry.

“You always say that!” Her excited facade dissolved into an angry rebuke. “You are supposed to be mine!” My ears flared, flushing with resentment of my own. While that was my legal station, only she would be so gauche as to point it out. Could anyone be blamed for minimizing their time around her?

At any rate, an outburst of fury would not be efficacious. I straightened, putting on my most urbane airs. “This only started because you kept insisting on going on those trips with Lucial and Sistilla. I needed to find other things to occupy my time, and now I have responsibilities.”

“I tried to get them to take you along!” She clenched her fists aloft. “I really did!” True, and I wouldn’t dispute her on this.

“Still, people depend on me for things now. It wouldn’t be fair to them after they have reorganized their schedules to accommodate the changes.” A bonk argument, but she didn’t know that.

“But...” She looked down, defeated.

“Got to go.” I turned and sprinted towards the door. “Maybe I’ll play with you later if there is time,” I said as I rounded the threshold. Thankfully— because of Linglang—later would probably never come. But I would be on the lookout for Amillia just in case.

The sun sagged low in the sky when I reached the village; evening had threatened when I left. I completed my obligatory duties and suffered the inveterate grumbles from Jick, who seemed to complain more out of habit than conscious thought. With that done, I attended to the main reason for my visit, Yogi, who was quickly becoming my good pal, despite being as dumb as a box of rocks, or perhaps because of it.

“Oh... Olavir,” Yogi said upon seeing me enter with that drawn-out way of speaking all hougen shared. “It’s a good time to come.” A wave of warm air hit me as I entered his hut through the door flap. It was built partially sunken into the ground, and it often granted the place a refreshing coolness. However, today, he had a blaze going in the fireplace. Standing, he stirred a massive cauldron with what looked like a shovel, though it fit into his hand like a decent-sized spoon.

“You will like what I got today. The humans call it Hougen Stew.” He threw in what looked like the picked-at remains of a spinal column and continued stirring. I winced.

“What do the hougen call it?” I asked, feeling queasy.

“Dinner.” That... was actually pretty clever. Did he intend to do that? “Now, just let it cook.” He stepped away from the big pot, and I wondered if it was wise to leave it unattended with such a wild blaze under it. “I have read another sign!” he said. Excited, judging by the rising tone in his deep voice.

“Oh? Have you?” I tried to be encouraging, but in truth, teaching him to read was not progressing well. He grabbed a plank of wood leaning against the adobe wall and laid it between us. Three words were written by his hand, if the handwriting was any indicator: like a child had scrawled it with a crayon. However, he had copied the words correctly and legibly… if just barely.

“Hooouuugeeen...” He said the first word just fine, if a little drawn out. “Reeecuuurrriiaaati-on.” Almost.

“It’s pronounced ‘recreation,’” I corrected.

“Reeecuuurrriiiaaatiiooon,” he repeated correctly this time and continued to the last. “Aaaarrrrreeeeaaa.” He stopped and looked at me... With pride? I couldn’t tell. Hougen didn’t have much in the way of facial expressions.

“So what does it say?”

“Hougen Recreeeaatiioon Area.” He brought his hand to what amounted to his chin. “I don’t know this word.” He pointed to “recreation.”

“Recreation. It means to exercise, or play, or relax.” He rubbed his chin, and from experience, I recognized this as confusion. “It’s like stuff you do because you want to, not because you have to.”

“Ohhh!” He drew out the sound. “So this sign is for an area for hougen to do hougen things.” It sounded like he understood, so I nodded. He looked... pleased? Once again, hard to tell.

“Here, let me give you some other words to read.” He looked on as I scratched five words into the packed dirt floor. He pondered over them like an old lady doing a crossword puzzle. I knew from experience that he probably wouldn’t finish before I left. He had learned all his letters and all the sounds associated with them. Even a number of the common phonic interactions, though those still tripped him up. I tried to minimize them and limit words to only those he would know.

“K—”, he sounded out the first letter. “K...” He repeated, and then thought about it for an inordinate amount of time. “Aaaaa...” he intoned, the sound an elaborate puzzle that pushed the limits of hougen understanding. “K—Aaaaaa...” Another glacial age passed, then he tacked on the final letter. “T—.” Finally, the genome was sequenced, and we could try figuring out what it all meant.

“K... Aaaaaaa... T—” His chin endured more contemplative stroking as he pored over the word like a master over a Go board. “K... Aaaa… T—” This continued for several more minutes. I sighed to myself. He had struggled to learn all the letters, but all things considered, I thought he did fairly well. However, he couldn’t seem to understand a written word in any reasonable amount of time, even if continually repeated as he sounded it out.

“CAT!” he exclaimed as if he had just cracked the Enigma, pushing out his chest. Definitely proud this time.

“Yes, cat... very good,” I praised as a tired parent might a mentally deficient child. He beamed all the same as the pot in the background began to boil over. “Umm... don’t you think you should get that?”

Yogi followed my gaze to the turbulent cauldron. “No, still needs time,” he said without concern and turned back to the next word written. “Should have time for one more.

A repeat performance followed. Maybe it took him a little less time, as it should, because the word after “cat” was “rat.” I intentionally gave him five three-letter words that all ended with “at.” If it took him five minutes to read “cat,” it took him maybe four minutes for “rat.” If you thought he burned through all his dopamine on that first success, you would be wrong; he still looked ready to do an end-zone dance.

“Did you notice any similarities in the words?” I prompted, hoping he would start to make the connection.

“...” He took a moment. “Ahh! They all end with ‘at’”

“Very good. So what does that mean about the sound of all the words?”

“…They will end with an ‘at’ sound.”

“Good, now do you think you can use this to make reading the rest of the words easier?” I had been trying several methods to enrich his reading. So far unsuccessful, though he always eventually got them, given enough time.

“Yes!” He looked over to the next word. “B...” The inevitable pause followed. I let out a sigh and dragged my hand across my face.

After the “bat” epoch passed, it seemed the Hougen Stew, or dinner, was ready. “That’s enough learning for now. Need to give my brain time to rest. Stew should be done now.” He lumbered over to the cauldron, which was now a tempest boiling over, and pulled it from the fire, barehanded. I almost cried out, but it didn’t faze him in the least. He placed the pot in the middle of the room with its nearly boiling contents. Dropping to a seated position, he grabbed the massive spoon and ladled out a sizable quantity of the molten stew. Then, without even blowing on it, he poured the spoonful down his gullet with no regard for his innards.

As I stared dumbstruck, he looked at me. “Eat up! It’s best when it’s hot.”

“Umm... With what?” He ate straight out of the pot, and with that comically large spoon, he looked like a cartoon character. That’s saying nothing of the heat radiating off the metal cauldron; I actually needed to take a few steps back.

“Hmm...” He looked around the typical spartan hovel of a slave. Mainly just a hearth, a place to sleep, a pot, and that spoon, though I did catch sight of some makeshift writing implements. “We can share this spoon,” he said, dipping it in for another helping and holding it up to me. I gave the massive hunk of wood a remorseful smile.

“I think it’s too hot for me.” I tried blowing it with wind magic, only to be reminded that I couldn’t do that anymore. I might have taken the chance to lament it again, if not for the noisome scent coming from the rancorous stew; I had to suppress my gag reflex.

Pinching my nose, I asked, “What is in this stuff?”

“Oh... pig guts, chicken feet, a backbone of a four-legged animal, tubers...” he went on. None of that seemed particularly tasty, but they didn’t account for this rank odor. “The secret is you have to boil the fleshy parts in vinegar beforehand. That makes it nice and soft.” Okay, maybe that was it. He pushed the spoon towards me again. It still bubbled on the spoon. I tried to politely decline, but for the first time, he actually seemed offended.

“What? Are we not friends?” Was he getting upset? The last thing I ever wanted to deal with was an upset hougen.

“We are totally friends!” I assured him.

“Then why you not eat Hougen Stew?” he said like an Italian grandmother.

“It’s... too hot.” Yes, a perfectly passable, perfectly true excuse.

“Oh...” He calmed down. “Do hu...” He paused, looking confused, but continued. “Do you not like hot food?”

“It will burn my mouth.” Crisis averted.

“Oh...” He pulled the spoon back, and for a moment I thought he would eat it himself, but instead he blew on it, a long continuous stream of air. I might have been impressed with his set of lungs if not for the odor blowing straight into my face. My eyes watered at the caustic fumes. After his long exhale, he held it back out to me. “Here, cooled off now.”

It didn’t bubble anymore, so I could probably eat it without injury, but... He eyed me, waiting. Damn, I guess I had no choice. Tepidly, I inched my lips towards the rim of the spoon, preparing to take the smallest of sips. However, just as my mouth reached the ladle, Yogi tipped it up, spilling a Geneva-Convention-violating quantity into my mouth.

My god... This substance! Possibly the vilest thing I’ve ever tasted! What I imagined compost tasted like, and then the soft, mostly dissolved, slimy bits. Only through marshalling all my will could I swallow it down, despite my united GI track’s protests. So putrid! I could still taste it in my stomach. Sistilla’s cooking seemed downright merciful in comparison, merely causing your innards to drop out from under you, ending the misery. While this concoction wouldn’t kill you, probably, you still might kill yourself. I found myself in a coughing fit.

“Good, right?” Was he serious? Could he not see my soul trying to eject itself? “Hougen stew is the best. It will make you big and strong and healthy.” He drank down the rest of the spoonful with gusto. “I would eat it every day if I could.”

“Why *cough* don’t *cough* you then *cough*?” I choked out between coughs.

“Not enough backbones to go around.” The spoon continued to ladle out stew at a nauseating rate. Just the knowledge that something was ingesting that god awful substance made my stomach turn. Did he really enjoy this stuff? It tasted as if it could strip paint off a wall. After several minutes, I managed to pull myself back together.

“Here, have some more,” and another spoonful was presented to me.

“No,” my voice came out hoarse. “I think I’m good.” Yogi gave me a sideways look. “It’s very nutritious.” I rubbed my belly. “Just that little bit will keep me going for a long time. I am a small creature after all.”

“Oh...” He appeared to buy it. I wiped the nonexistent sweat from my brow—cats and foxes only sweat on their paws. He continued to slurp it down. He couldn’t possibly eat the whole vat? Still, fine by me.

With the hope of dissuading any additional attempts to solicit his stew, I took a walk around his residence. Small, yet big. Small for such a large creature, but bigger than the closet I was living in. The dwelling sank into the ground around three meters, with an additional two meters protruding above ground at its highest point. The upper portion was built like a log cabin and had a thatched roof. As for the entrance, there wasn’t a door, just a heavy tarp draped across the huge doorway.

I looked back at the spot where I had written the five words in the ground. Next to the first three, Yogi had placed a tick mark. He liked to denote his achievements, though it didn’t seem like much of an achievement to me, at least not given the time it took him, and two words remained!

Sigh. “Maybe hougen really can’t learn to read after all.” I hung my head.

“Huh...” Yogi turned his massive head towards me. “But I just read something.”

“W-Wha—” Did Yogi just refute me? “I didn’t say anything.”

“Yes, you did.” He put the spoon down. “You said, Maybe hougen really can’t learn to read after all.” He had repeated my thoughts verbatim... But how? Wait, it couldn’t be... Did I inadvertently use telepathy? But the collar should cancel that out.

“Can you hear this, Yogi?” He tilted his head, which is no easy thing for a Hougen.

“Yes...” He even thought this was an obvious thing to ask. But it wasn’t obvious. He wasn’t hearing me, not with his ears anyway, but with his mind! This was a major discovery! I needed to experiment.

"I want you to help me with some experiments,” I thought, excitement gripping me.

“Experiments?”

"Like this one," I sent him the understanding of the word, in the way of the yutsuukitsuu. How exciting! Even more so than when I got that first bar of music for the Mario theme to resonate.

“Oh! To learn something.” He got it! And more importantly, he could understand raw ideas! I geared up to spend the next several hours trying various things, but just then…

BOOM—ba ba BOOM—ba ba... A repeating pounding rhythm crashed through the den, seizing Yogi’s attention. The hair on my tail bristled, but I soon concluded that the odds of an invading force were implausible, and the creatures around the chateau were civilized enough to refrain from making offerings to dark deities.

“Oh! I forgot we are making noise tonight.” He looked up toward the door. “I’ll eat the rest later.”

“…Making noise?”

“That’s what humans call it.” He stood up, leaving his spoon in the stew. Going by the pot’s size, it would still probably be hot upon his return. “Come and see.” He waved a massive arm, which would have been an OSHA violation back in the States, for me to follow. Normally, I would be eager to investigate this oddity, if not for a greater oddity I had just discovered. But alas, it didn’t look like he would wait around for me to pepper him with questions, so I followed.

We didn’t need to go far to find the assembled hougen in the hougen recreation area, as indicated by that sign Yogi had copied with pride. A half dozen hougen slammed their fists into the ground in unison around a large bonfire. Boom—ba ba Boom—ba ba... As other hougen arrived, they joined the drumming circle, adding to the percussive waves.

“So, you all just drum out this beat?” I asked. Seemed like something a primitive people would do.

“Hmm... No. This is just calling all the hougen to make noise.” We walked around to an outer circle that formed around an inner circle of four. Judging from the way they arranged themselves, I guessed there would be eight in this outer ring.

“How many hougen are there?” I asked. I had a general idea, but I didn’t know exactly.

“Twelve!” he said, and then added with a flourish, “I counted.” We moved into a vacant spot, and it looked like Yogi was about to start slamming the ground, but then he remembered he had a guest. “Oh... You can make noise too...” He paused, a thought occurring to him. “Maybe there isn’t room for you...” Remorse tinged his tone... I think.

“That’s fine. I am good to just watch,” I said via telepathy. Might as well continue my test out here. One of the adjacent hougen began to look around, while not breaking his rhythm. I guess he heard me. There are two ways to communicate with telepathy: broadcasting and the Whisper. Broadcasting was just that: anyone within range could receive it. The Whisper was like having a direct line: only the recipient would get it. “I don’t think I could make any sound like you,” I added, but with the Whisper—no need to create confusion.

“Oh... You should try. Sound might be quiet, but still sound.” Regardless, Yogi started to beat in time with the rest. Assuming there were 12 spots, several had yet to arrive. Though the humans called this noise, they beat out the rhythm in a clear, precise pattern. Even up close, after adjusting to the concussive force of slamming fists, it was rather relaxing.

The last two hougen still hadn’t arrived when my eyes drifted around the circle. Hougen were hard to tell apart, aside from their clothing, all in some state of disrepair, or rather ineptitude. Perhaps the hougen made their own clothes, which would explain the poor quality; they didn’t seem capable of the delicate touch required for tailoring clothes. In fact, if they were making their own garments, it would be impressive. Regardless, their clothing, though generally consisting of a sleeveless shirt and short-cropped trousers, were distinct enough to serve as identification.

The sudden cessation of drumming broke my reverie, jarring me more than when they had begun. Reorienting, I looked into the now complete circles. Two rings in complete symmetry, almost like an atomic model; I half suspected a supernatural ritual. One of the four at the center started drumming. Boom—ba ba Boom—ba ba... The same beat as before, only this time, when the next hougen joined in, she beat out a different pattern. DA— da da—da DA—da da—... It was a much faster beat, but it merged into the rhythm, adding a layer of complexity. Was this truly a drumming circle?

Another hougen joined in, adding his own rhythm to the beat, followed by the next. One by one, they all began drumming out their own beat. And surprisingly, it all meshed together as if coordinated by a master composer, each drummer adding a richness, almost orchestral quality to the sound. Soon, the entire assembly pounded out their own parts. And then, it got interesting.

I had assumed this drumming routine had glacially evolved through trial and error. That through painstaking effort, they had cobbled together a pattern that meshed—an impressive feat for any group this size. But then a hougen went off script, and I remembered what they say about assuming. He started varying his tempo and the force behind each beat, but not just that. On the “Boom” portion, he hit the ground with such force that his lower body literally launched into the air and then used the impact of his landing to add to the beat.

Before long, others were taking the same creative liberties, all becoming more animated. Some started stomping the ground; another did a strange hop, almost like a form of dance. Aside from the dance-like quality of the movements, it all added to the harmonious riff of the group, almost like a genetically mutated Riverdance.

Perhaps I could understand why the humans called this making noise; the sound must carry for miles like a firework display. However, you couldn’t possibly call this noise. It was artistic genius! But it wasn’t genius; every hougen participated, and all with a natural ease. Were the hougen at large just rhythmically adroit? That certainly seemed to be the case.

Another thing their display made clear. Though generally lethargic and sluggish, the hougen were capable of quick and explosive movement. I wouldn’t call it graceful, but if angered, you couldn’t count on them being too slow to chase you down, or too sluggish to smack you with the force of an unmarked truck.