[Idgian]

Bethberry had just hung a small bouquet of sweet smelling flowers above the bar, when she heard somebody counting in soft whispers. She climbed down and looked under a table, and there was Madi, hood up, knees drawn to his chest, quietly counting his apple pip collection.

“Aren’t you supposed to be with Ruthven?” Bethberry enquired.

Madi stopped counting. “Get off,” he sniffed, moodily. “Madi’s busy.”

“Come out of there,” Bethberry soothed. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Reluctantly putting his pips away in his pocket, Madi shuffled from under the table. He stood before Bethberry, hooded head downcast. “Madi got knocked down,” he huffed. “By a girl with a rainbow.”

“Ah.” Bethberry smiled knowingly. “You must’ve met Aiyana.” She patted Madi’s head. “Perhaps we could find something in the kitchen to cheer you up?” she said. “Something tasty, maybe?”

The hood slowly lifted. Round eyes glinted in the shadows. Bethberry, it seemed to Madi, had a very good point. Something tasty from the kitchen would indeed help to dwindle his upset.

* * *

In the kitchen, Froma looked over at Madi sitting on a worktop and then to Bethberry standing beside him. He shook his head and carried on preparing vegetables on a chopping board.

“There’s nothing ready yet,” he told Bethberry. “Just raw vegetables or some fruit.” He looked up again, slightly irritated. “Does he have to wear that hood all the time, Beth? I like to look folk in the eye.”

“No, he doesn’t” Bethberry replied and she rounded on the little figure. “We’ve talked about this before, Madi,” she told him and pulled the hood down.

Madi shot her a look and pulled the hood back up. Bethberry pulled it back down again and grabbed Madi’s hands, gently holding them to his sides. When his brief struggling ceased, she ruffled his hair and wiped the residue of tears from his cheeks. Madi’s frown was so deep it almost pushed his tusk-like teeth into his eyes.

Froma emptied a sack-full of potatoes onto his worktable. “I heard you were different looking,” he said to Madi. “But that’s no reason to hide yourself.”
But Madi was staring at the potatoes, the cook’s words lost. His frown had turned to hungry eyes.
Froma couldn’t help but chuckle. “Where’s he from, Beth?”

Bethberry puffed her cheeks. “It’s a bit of a story, and not one I can pretend to understand fully,” she said, and ruffled Madi’s hair again. “You don’t do things straightforwardly do you, little one?”

Madi pointed at Froma’s chopping board. “Botatoes,” he said greedily.

Froma and Bethberry shared a look.

“If you mean you want a ‘Potato’,” Froma corrected, “they haven’t been cleaned or boiled yet.”

Madi nodded wide-eyed. “Botatoes. Yumyum!”

“Po-tatoes,” Froma reasserted. “P not B, Madi. P-O-tatoes.”

Madi shook his head adamantly “B-O-tatoes,” he shot back. “Botatoes for Madi please!”

“Potatoes!” Froma said sternly. “Say it properly and you can have some when they’re cooked!”

“Botatoes now!” Madi shouted, wondering what he had to do to get his feed. “Botatoes, Botatoes, Botatoes!” he continued in a rising pitch. Didn’t Froma understand he was upset and in need of cheering? “Botatoes!”

The strain of shouting eventually proved too much for Madi. He clutched his throat and fell down on his back, writhing dramatically. He stuck his tongue out to emphasise how severely his voice box hurt.

Bethberry looked to the ceiling in total wonder and sighed. "Madi, Stop it!" she scolded. Madi ceased squirming and slowly withdrew his tongue. Bethberry smiled apologetically to the cook. “Please, Froma," she said. "Let him have a potato.”

Madi raised a hand and extended his index and middle fingers. “Two,” he gasped. “Two Botatoes!”

In total bewilderment, Froma broke into an uncontrollable smile. He chucked a couple of dirt-covered spuds down to Madi. The little man caught them with deft precision and instantly launched into a throaty chuckle of triumph.

Just then the kitchen door opened and Ruthven stuck her head in. She saw the writhing figure on the floor, a potato in each hand, and rolled her eyes.

“He found his way home, I see,” she said dryly.

Bethberry nodded. “What happened today, Ruth? He was very upset, though you wouldn’t think so now.”

“Where to be begin!” Ruthven replied seriously. “Is there somewhere we can go, somewhere private?” she whispered. “I need to speak with you about our little man. The sooner the better.”

* * *

Alone in Bethberry’s private chambers, the White Horse landlady and Ruthven sipped mint tea in companionable silence. Madi, for better or worse, had been left under Froma’s supervision. Ruthven stood looking out the window while Bethberry sat at her dresser stool watching the old one. As streaming sunlight haloed her thin form, she seemed frail to Bethberry, older and more troubled than she had ever noticed before. Patiently the landlandy waited for Ruthven to gather her thoughts.

“I don’t know, Beth,” Ruthven finally said. “I’ve never seen nor heard anything like it. Not in all my years of wandering.”

“Yes, he is a little unique,” Bethberry replied, and placed her cup down on the dresser.

“More than you know, lass.” Ruthven sighed and turned from the window. “He’s incredible, Beth,” she said pointedly, and then tapped her head. “Up here, he just might be the cleverest person I know. But I doubt even he is aware of it.”

“You’re not making much sense,” Bethberry said softly. “I’m sensing something more than the incident with Aiyana happened today, yes?”

Ruthven chuckled. “I found out what our little man did in Minas Tirith. This Jian, whoever he was, wasn’t just Madi’s keeper, Beth. He was an employer.”

Bethberry leant forward, intrigued. “Madi worked for Master Jian?” She nodded thoughtfully. “It makes sense. Madi said he’d work for me in return for nice. He must’ve done the same at Minas Tirith.”

“Yes.” Ruthven agreed. “But the work he did there was very different. Jian was a compiler of written words, as far as I can gather. Madi would dictate a text, while his master wrote it down.”

Bethberry’s eyes widened with surprise. “Madi can read?”

Ruthven barked a single, incredulous laugh. “It’s much more than that, Beth. Madi has a gift with words, and it’s . . . well, like nothing I’ve experienced before.”

“What?” Bethberry asked, smiling at Ruthven’s open expression of wonder. “Tell me, old friend.”

“I wouldn’t know how to,” she replied. “Not in a way you would believe me.” Ruthven thought for a moment. “Do you have something you’ve written to hand? Anything will do.”

“I have a journal,” Bethberry said. “Why?”

“Let me have the last page you wrote, and bring the little man up.” Ruthven smiled. “You should see this for yourself.”

* * *

Some minutes later, Ruthven and Bethberry stood before Madi as he sat on Bethberry’s bed, happily chomping on his last ‘botato’.

“Madi,” said Ruthven. “Will you ‘speak’ for Bethberry?” The old woman held out the page from the landlady’s journal.

Instantly Madi stopped eating and smiled. “Yes,” he said, nodding eagerly. He stuffed the potato into his pocket, wiping his hands on his habit. “Give it here,” he urged and took the page from Ruthven.

Bethberry had to admit, the last thing expected was to see Madi eat the page, but then surprise seemed to be a common thing around this little creature. She looked at Ruthven questioningly.

“Wait,” Ruthven whispered. “You’ll not be disappointed.”

Madi jumped off the bed and moved to the open window. He breathed the warm, country air deeply and sighed satisfactorily.

“It never ceases to amaze me how life can still maintain the element of surprise, even after all these years,” Madi began in a voice definitely not his own. “Sandwiched between the aftermath of a glorious party, and the hustle of a market day, fate still found time to smuggle in a conundrum. Madi, he calls himself, and he seems the dearest of creatures; out of luck and in need of love, it appears. I have taken him in for the meantime. Though my feelings are mixed as to where my charity might lead.”

“Voice sound familiar?” Ruthven asked Bethberry, and chuckled at the landlady’s slack-jawed gawping.

“He must’ve read the page before he ate it!” she accused.

“Trust me, Beth, Madi can’t read, at least not in any way you or I would make sense of. Anyway, how do explain the voice?” Ruthven’s chuckling turned to open laughter. “That’s the best impression I’ve ever heard of you!”

Madi was looking rather pleased with himself. He stuck both thumbs up at Bethberry. “Madi will speak for Berry anytime,” he announced and crawled back up onto the landlady’s bed.

Bethberry looked at Madi in stunned silence for several moments. She then pulled Ruthven to one side. “Incredible,” she whispered. “How does he do it?”

“Beats me,” Ruthven admitted. “He just seems to absorb the words off the page. But that’s not all,” she looked over at Madi who, oblivious to their conversation, had rolled backwards on the bed and planted both feet firmly on the wall "He doesn’t forget,” continued Ruthven. “What he absorbs stays up there, in his head. At least it seems that way.”

“How do you mean?”

“Ask him a direct question about something he may have eaten, he doesn’t seem to know what your talking about. He has to hear something said in the right way, even accidentally, to jog his memory. But when something does trigger him, there’s no telling what’ll come out his mouth.”

“I wonder,” Bethberry said. “Madi could have a whole library swirling around in his head.”

“Or not,” Ruthven pointed out. “I suppose it depends on how long he was with this Master Jian before he died.” She pursed her lips seriously. “It’s a case of everything or nothing, Beth. But which is our little man?”

Bethberry saw the worry on her friend’s face. “What am I missing, Ruthven? What’s troubling you?”

The old woman sighed. “I remember something my Da used to tell me when I was a girl: the less you know the less trouble will find you. Too much information can be a dangerous thing, Beth.”

Bethberry frowned. “You think Madi’s in danger?” she asked.

Ruthven shrugged. “Ah, I don’t know. But if our little man holds half as many secrets in his head as those scholars at Minas Tirith, some folk might not like him running around spouting goodness knows what to anyone he meets. He could be an accident waiting to happen. He might spell trouble for those around him too.”

“What are you suggesting?” Bethberry said levelly. “Send him packing and turn my back? I won’t do it, Ruthven!”

“No,” Ruthven answered quickly. “That’s not what I meant, woman! It’s not his fault after all, though I don’t doubt he can care for himself well enough on the streets. I . . . I don’t know what I’m trying to say, Beth. It’s just worth bearing in mind, that’s all. And the fewer folk who know about his eating habits the better, I feel.”

Bethberry nodded and looked over at Madi. “I wish this Jian were still around to talk to,” she said. “I wonder what he thought of Madi, and where he found him . . .”

Madi suddenly made a strangling noise deep in his throat, taking both Bethberry and Ruthven by surprise. He rolled from the bed, smoothly to his feet, and paced the floor of Bethberry’s chambers. With his hands firmly clasped behind his back, he began speaking with a voice akin to one of old and wizened years.

“Where to begin on the subject of my mad little codex?” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Undoubtedly, he is the sole reason I have been able to continue my work these last two years, and for that I send out blessings to whichever fate decided to send him to me.”

“Two years,” Ruthven whispered. “That’s a lot of eating time, Beth.”

Bethberry nodded and silenced the old street merchant with a raised hand. Madi continued.

“I suppose the same could be said for him,” the eerie voice of Jian said. “When I found the poor thing he was bruised and starved, shunned and hounded by a society shamefully intolerant of his looks. Even the vagabonds spurned him. I like to think he also blesses the day I took him in. He certainly seems happy.”

Here, Madi moved towards Ruthven with a thoughtful frown and slipped the old woman’s clay pipe from her pouch, and helped himself to a small amount of weed. He packed the pipe and lit it. He then resumed his pacing, one hand held at the small of his back, the other holding the pipe to his mouth as he puffed furiously. He turned to address the two women.

“The name Madi is of course a pet name, and one born from familiarity. I have filled the poor little blighter’s head with so much knowledge since our friendship began he has become like a walking library of information. And along with his charmingly unusual ways, I like to think of him as sweetly mad. I began to refer to him as my ‘Mad Codex’ or ‘Madi’ for short. And it is this shorted name that has stuck to him, like glue, even among my fellow scholars.

“As to my dear little friend’s true name and origin . . . that remains a complete mystery, as much to him, as it is to me. He has no recollection of his time before living on the streets, of his parents, or any siblings. I have spent many long hours searching our records for some indication of what race he descends from, but to no avail. I have come to the conclusion that he is a one off, possibly the result of years of inter-breading between mountain races. I suspect Madi is far older than his appearance suggests. To most, including myself, he seems sometimes to be no more than a child. Be that the case, then no child should have to endure the torture he has suffered at the hands of ignorance. Yet, astoundingly, Madi manages to keep a high regard for men. He only wishes to be treated ‘nice’, as he puts it. His level of forgiveness and tolerance speaks of maturity and experience.”

Madi gave a couple of puffs on the pipe, looking ridiculously studious. “But I digress,” he said, knowingly raising an eyebrow. “For many years now I have worked by dim candle light in my study. My goal is to compile as many of the ancient scrolls and books around me into sturdily bound compendiums. There are several of us endeavouring to transcribe these volumes. Eventually our work will be passed to other scholars who will make further copies, lest the history and poetry, great stories and thoughts of the geniuses of this world be lost to the ravages of time’s decay. This is, to me, a labour of love. But as age creeps up on all men, the years have not been kind to my eyes. And in the dim light of my study it has become harder and harder to read the texts I am to copy.

“What is this to do with Madi? How did this funny little scamp cure my problem? Synaesthetics is the answer. And a strange one at that.” Madi climbed up on a simple wooden chair and sat back, crossing his legs. “I have dealt with certain individuals suffering from synaesthesia in the past. It is a curious condition where the senses are back to front and out of sequence. For instance, it may cause a person to see sound, taste words, or smell colours. Usually the effects of the condition are milder than one might imagine. Though not a total blessing, Synaesthesia is far from a curse. Madi, however, suffers from an extreme strain, which appears unique and quite something to behold.

“When I first took him in he spent the first few weeks sleeping in the corner of my study and watching me work. He rarely spoke and ate scarcely. It took patience to break down his defences and gain his trust. But before long I had him eating from the palm of my hand. He would run errands for me, or carry simple messages between scholars. We spoke of his time on the streets and he asked questions of my work.

“It was one devilishly dreary day, as I remember, when I had just given up trying transcribe a particularly arduous scroll; the weakness of my eyes had given me a terrible headache. My intention was too pass the scroll on to one of my better-sighted colleagues, so I gave it to Madi and asked him place it on a safe shelf. Now, instead of doing as I asked, Madi chose to execute a most surprising alternative. He ate it! Even down to the wooden rollers. He crunched and swallowed every last morsel of that scroll. And before I could admonish him, or in any way express my shock, Madi began speaking in a voice that was clearly not his own. And further more, his words were the beginning chapter of the consumed scroll. From start to finish he read the whole thing, seemingly having absorbed the words and stored them to memory. Hastily, I copied down the words he dictated. What’s more, I discovered I did it in half my usual time.

“The next day I fed Madi another scroll and copied down the words he spouted. I gave him poems in Elvish, stories written in dead languages, all of them he ate and dictated. I had found the solution to my problem, and praised Madi and cheered his arrival every day. The little one had changed my fortunes and I worked with renewed vigour. My colleagues are astounded at my find, and often listen to Madi, while I copy. He is a true treasure among us, and a source of much mirth.

“I do not know how long I have left in this life, but I am glad to be spending my twilight with this incorrigible companion. He has wormed his way into the stone-like hearts of us scholars. He is to me . . . not a son . . . more the grandchild I never had. And he is my friend.”

Madi yawned and moved back to the bed, leaving the smouldering pipe on the chair. He pulled his half-eaten potato from his pocket and gasped as he found it covered in apple pips. “Pips on Botato!” he shouted, panic stricken.

Ruthven moved forward and retrieved her pipe. She turned to Bethberry with a worried frown.

“I see your point,” Bethberry told her and moved over to Madi. “It’s all right,” she soothed. “How about we plant your pips outside. See if we can grow some trees, eh?”

Madi’s mouth fell open excitedly and he nodded. “Yes please, Berry.”

Madi jumped off the bed and took Bethberry’s hand. The landlady looked to Ruthven as she started for the door. “We keep this between us for now, Ruthven,” she said.

The old woman nodded dubiously. “I agree. But how long can you keep the little man away from someone’s books? It’ll only be a matter of time, Beth. Something like this won’t stay quiet for long. Besides, it sounds like he gained a little fame at Minas Tirith.”

Bethberry knew the street merchant spoke correctly. “It may prove to be a smaller deal than we’re making it,” She said. “But all the same I’ll keep him here for now. I need time to think.” She sighed. “Can I call on you if need be?”

Ruthven looked a little hurt. “You know you can, woman! You’ve always been able to. Besides, I like the little man’s company.”

“Thank you,” Bethberry said and opened the door and slipped out with Madi.

Alone in the landlady’s chambers, Ruthven chuckled as the sound of Madi’s excited shouts drifted back to her: “Botato trees!” he cried.

She knocked her pipe against the windowsill, cleaning it of weed ash. As she watched the little dark cloud fall the to the ground below, the mirth suddenly dropped from the old woman’s face. The thought of Madi in distress troubled her to the core. “I hope there’s nothing following you, Madi Codex,” she whispered. “I really do,” and she left the room.

[ September 17, 2003: Message edited by: Idgian ]