"A jar," he told Pocapetl as he groped his way to a table in an especially gloomy corner of the shop. "A big jar."
"I can see why," said Pocapetl. "Those are a lot of spirit mouths to fill."
"Wait—you can see them?"
"He can see us?" Number One Grandfather's voice squeaked, suggesting a mummified mouse. "That barbarian?" They have never followed me in here before, Wen realized. Are they afraid of Pocapetl?
"For now," said Pocapetl, "I can see them." He brought a jar that was as tall as Wen's forearm was long, and from it poured a cup of what looked like smoke, handing the cup to Wen when it was full to the brim. "I was communing with my spirits last night," the barbarian said with a half-smile, "and the pay-yoh-tay door to the spirit world is still open a bit. Can't hear them, though. Do they all want to drink?"
"Yes," said Number One Grandfather.
"No," said Wen. "I'm trying to make them disappear."
"Wretch! One of the rituals of filial obedience is to sacrifice wine to your ancestors, to make their stay in the after-world more pleasant!"
"Whatever he's saying," said Pocapetl, "he doesn't seem very happy."
Wen drained his cup, sucking in his breath as the cloudy liquor burned its way down his throat. "He's telling me," he wheezed, "that he would enjoy tormenting me more if he was drunk."
"You barbarians have interesting relationships with your families." Usually it amused Wen to be called a barbarian by a copper-skinned horror like Pocapetl. Today was not a day for laughter, though. He tapped his empty cup. Pocapetl poured; before the cup filled, though, the flow from the jar trickled and then ceased. "Be right back," the barbarian said.
Unbidden, the Dragon Eye patch presented a vision to Wen: as his crew pushed the Jade Maiden off the sandbank and into the ocean, one of her rudders flipped up, and up, and then fluttered down into the water. "Now will you perform the rituals?"
"No," Wen said.
"You just said you wanted more," Pocapetl said from behind him. He held a small pottery jar.
"Wasn't talking to you just then," Wen said. "Sorry for the confusion. And that jar won't be nearly big enough."
"Apology accepted," Pocapetl said. "Both of them." He finished filling Wen's cup.
"Both? I only apologized once."
"You're about to again." Pocapetl poured from his small jar into the larger one. And poured, and poured, as the bigger jar's song changed to show it filling.
Wen laughed. "I apologize to your jar; clearly it will suffice." He drank while watching Pocapetl pour. "Nice trick."
"It does make storage easier," Pocapetl said. "I can't see the old ones anymore. Have they gone?"
Suddenly Wen was having trouble speaking. "I reg—reg—'m sorry to say they have not. 'Nother, please."
"Your head is going to be very sore tomorrow, friend."
"My head's been sore since m' grandfathers arrived," Wen said. "This 's becoming nor—normal for me. So might 'swell get pleasure with pain. Did that make any sense?"
"No," said Pocapetl.
"A wise man," said one of the grandfathers. "Why couldn't he have been our grandson?"
"No grandson of ours will pierce his skin," said another.
"Or commune with foreign spirits," agreed a third.
"Shut up, the lot of you," said Wen. "Another," he added to Pocapetl, nodding at his cup.
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