Into the Raging Mountains Page 11

  So when the sad, smashed corpses of these acknowledged enemies of the people began to disappear, their absence went unremarked at first. Still, in the course of one quarter of a mooncycle, every dump pile had been raided and picked clean of bedraggled corpses. Individually, many of the villagers thought it was the neighborhood cats. They blessed them for it, and left a bit of milk next to the trash piles in addition to fishheads as a return courtesy to the effective felines.

  The milk went untouched. The village cats continued to hunt, but never seemed to gain any fat for all the dead mice and fishheads consumed.

  After services on Godsday, while the double-chinned new priest, resplendent in his costly finery, chatted amiably with his flock of respectful if not devoted followers, casual talk amongst the peckish wives turned to comparing, as always, the amazing cleanliness of their houses. Someone mentioned the blessing of the missing rats. Astonishment followed as the busybodies counted up the numbers gone from the town’s piles. Sheer numbers were staggering and the skinny local cats appeared to not be getting the benefit of the carrion feast.

  With a whisper here and a suggestion there, the simple and direct people were seized on by a morbid curiosity. Was it some fearsome mountain cat? A scavenging bear? Had the local housecats fantastically crowned a catking to whom they devotedly brought the harvest’s abundance of rodent dead? Is there unseen danger?

  One torrid thought followed another: What if the mice stop dying? If the village runs out of carrion in the trash heaps, would the beast’s mighty hunger look to the villagers? Happiness and contentment at the ease of the disgusting disposal of scavenger bodies turned to speculation of terrible monsters, giant cats, fearsome eagles, and in general, idiotic fear.

  This was one of those cautious fears though: the villagers did not dare stop leaving the bodies. No one wished to suffer the directed and seemingly immense hunger of the mysterious Whatever-It-Was. The piles became more offering than discards, as villagers took to feeding the mice they had left just to insure something was offered in the evening’s trash. Peaceful nights became gloomy and tense. Doors were barred against the mysterious and therefore threatening unknown in the dark of night.

  Was gossip ever a good thing? Contentment over cleanliness became concern over imaginary beasts. Idle speculation grew into unease about dangers lurking in the evening shadows. All through the cold and howling nightfalls, the village held its breath in fear and uncertainty.

  *

  With the ringing of the town’s tower bell, rambunctious children settled into two haphazard lines forming at the closed school doors. Dressed in their new clothes from the recent Godsday celebration, tiny faces scrubbed, unruly hair compressed with heavy bows and forceful combing, the youngsters radiated palpable eagerness. School starts again this day! There would be no more antsy boredom at home, and no more sitting, interminably waiting for busy parents to play with them. They would not be shooed outside, away from the chores of the household, to play in the deep snows.

  As they filed into the warm and cheery building, Azure squeezed Brigget’s hand, clasped tightly in her own. Brigget was the closest girl in age to Azure in the entire village. Naturally, they were thick as thieves, with secret codes, whispers, and giggles. During school and playtime, the two were almost inseparable. Sometimes, when Lorayn would step in to help Brigget with little tasks, Azure wondered what having an older sister would be like.

  Laylada was the closest thing to a sister Azure could imagine. Ever since she could remember, Laylada had been there, helping first the little baby’s crying, then the questing fingers of a tiny girl and the growing wonder of a young mind. Azure had always spent time tagging around behind Laylada’s apron strings, asking all the questions that drove her own parents batty. The patience of the older girl’s answers, the detail of her explanations helped Azure make sense of a complex world, especially when it came to the town’s variations and traditions. The more she learned in school, the bigger the questions became and the longer the explanations.

  As the schoolbell chimed its release, Azure spilled out along with all the others, a swarm of hungry insects leaving their hive. Bright yellow ribbons bounced jauntily in her curly, blue hair, still oddly aquamarine colored. Other than her baby teeth and the whites of her dancing and darting eyes, every visible bit of Azure was the same remarkable shade she was born with.

  At one time, Azure’s mother had been advised to tone her coloring down, in the hope of easing social blending. No dyes seemed to stick although efforts had been made to cover the blue hair with plant-based colors. Even with artificially blue-black curls, Azure was still blue of skin and eyes. There was no amount of pigment or clothing that would ever make her one of the typical youngsters.

  With a quick glance from the porch of the townhall, she took in the whole of the green landscape that encompassed the entire village. Spying the telltale column of smoke drifting from Sansha’s back house, she immediately set off for a treat of hot cookies and cool water. Even walking slowly, the distance was covered in a few moments. Calling out Laylada’s name, eager to share new myths and learned symbols, Azure sped around the side of the building. Trailing her hand along the rough surface plaster of the wall, she stopped in the open doorway, pausing only a moment, before hugging the taller girl’s waist. Her older friend’s cooking apron was full of delicious crumbs and the feel of soft white flour.

  “Laylada! Laylada! Oh, I am so glad to see you!” she said in greeting. Then she chattered on, “Are those apple cookies? Can I make some too? I am going to be a great cook when I grow up. I can already make pies from mud and I am so great at being your helper, huh? Where are the cups for water? I am thirsty.”

  “Azure, good to see you, little one. How was school? You can have two cookies, and grab a cup for me as well. Take the small pitcher to the well spout for both of us?”

  They both spoke over each other, rather a cacophony of sounds. It was the same conversation repeated with little variation daily. There was no real need to listen to the other’s response. The after school pattern of their lives was tidy and simple. Once they were both full of cookies and each had refilled the crude mugs, Azure turned to her friend.

  “Laylada?”

  “Yes, Blueberry?”

  Azure smiled. “There’s so much I don’t know. I want to know. This world is too big for me to understand it all. How do you keep it all straight in your head? All these rules, all the things we have to do. I would be happy just eating your cookies and talking with you and Brigget, Lorayn and Yelton. Why do I need to learn about the dead and the Gods?”

  “Well, it’s pretty simple. Learning is the key to it all, to unlocking the whole, wide world. All the past and all the new ideas you learn at the schoolhouse were already taught to me and to your parents and to their parents before them. We keep the wisdom we have learned and try to remember it so we are stronger from the mistakes of others.”

  “There is such a long list of correct things that I must do. Why do I have to wear this dress? Why is my hair parted on the side? Why can’t I have an apron? Why must I wear shoes outside?

  “The grass doesn’t hurt me. It’s silly.” Small wheels turned in her mind for a bit, and she drew a deep breath and exhaled a terribly big sigh. Thoughts began to scatter in the midday sun. As she faded toward an embracing and beckoning sleep, little Azure mumbled, “Life is simpler than all that.”

  “Just do as you’re told, Azure, and all will be well.” Laylada wrapped her arms around her little friend’s shoulders, and blue spiral curls lay scattered across the white cooking apron.

  Neither girl noticed the stray lock of unruly, orange hair, only slightly visible in the midst of the stand of tall green trees and berry bushes clustered beyond the enclosing garden wall.

  *

  When she awoke from her well-earned sleep, stretching arms and back across the damp sheets, Alizarin’s mind was deliciously fuzzy. Rather like a kettle of thick, creamed wheat burbling away on a low fire, l
arge thoughts floated to the surface and sat for a while before bursting into her consciousness. During the few tense days of Gretsel’s extended and life-threatening labor through to the happy conclusion of a new baby’s birthing, time had seemed to speed ahead, boiling along. It had percolated with such vigor, that in the uneventful aftermath, farm life was so much more tranquil and serene in its predictability and daily tendings.

  The baby’s name was Baby and would be until Onnadirian tradition dictated the Naming Ceremony at his second cycle’s birthing day. Another Corded was happily welcomed into the bustle of harvest, the ongoing hustle of managing the feeding of many and the lives of a few. Everything was ordered. Everything felt right.

  Everything except the blackest-dread monster residing in the barn. It was simple. Alizarin could not bring herself to return to the building, to face the consequences of what or whatever she had seen. If there was nothing there in Samton’s stall, then where did that leave her and her own clearly overactive imagination? And by some great misfortune if there was a nightmarish creature sheltered in the main barn, what was she going to do about it? Fight? Scream? Run? Grab a pitchfork and take up arms against a beast three times my size? Defending herself with her nonexistent skills from something that she dreamt had almost finished off Ver would only be disastrous.

  True, she had no idea what kind of fighter Ver was, but he must know more than she did. His body was wiry and he carried himself with certainty, despite his wound. It was the injury that made her doubt. How had he allowed that to happen?

  And she couldn’t very well go tell Gretsel who was still recovering and wrapped in Baby’s every burp. Theress and she continued to be polite but not particularly friendly, both recognizing competence in each other but not feeling too inclined to share their lives. She would have liked to talk with Ver about it, but she didn’t know how to find him. The niggling worm in the back of Alizarin’s mind kept wondering if she was safe in this house or with Rethendrel.

  As time continued to move along, Alizarin found herself a welcomed guest, and a useful friend. Still, she was fretful. After several days of apparent calm, having almost convinced herself that she had imagined the entire episode, Alizarin again walked to the main barn. Bracing herself against the weight of the door, inhaling deeply and praying for strength and agility, she lifted the heavy metal latch and peeked into the dark.

  Heavy with straw and hay smells, the cool shadows slowly resolved themselves; the animals became moving beings separate from the concealment of shelter. Beyond the first barrier of wood, she could make out the familiar forms of Rethendrel’s burden horses, and cows for milking. Her nose was assaulted with the pervasive smell of freshly applied soap and even more recently deposited manure. Walking slowly back to the tool wall, she made a show of casually glancing at Samton’s stall along her route.

  Inside the pocket of her apron, she could feel the edges of the topaz biting into her clenched palm. Ready for flight or fight, Alizarin saw absolutely nothing. Relief. There was nothing there.

  The barn door opened and Rethendrel walked in, escorting a tired Samton from a small trip to the neighboring village’s market.

  “Top of the morning to you, Rethendrel.”

  Taking her presence in with a glance, “And the rest of the day to you as well,” he concluded with a nod. Then he turned his back to her, took off Samton’s halter and snapped, “I am tired. Can I help you with something?”

  “Uhhh, no. I was just interested in the … ,” she searched for words, “milking cows. You have such delicious butter, I thought to see the makers of such delightful cream.” She almost imagined the narrowing of Rethendrel’s eyes, as he pondered her response.

  Choosing to accept her presence as stated, he said,“Well, the stalls for our milk cows are not in this row. Come along and I will give you the grand tour.” Looking at his tired beast, Rethendrel shook his head abashed. “Here, I almost forgot to take care of you, old man.”

  Releasing the remaining straps from the cart and yoke, he carefully freed the donkey. With the ease of cycles of practice, he reached to the tool wall and found the currying brush and other implements. Setting them in order on the side of the stall, the farmer and trader went to work caring for his beast of burden. Samton’s eyes glazed over, under the ministering hands of his keeper. Rethendrel offered a comb to Alizarin and gestured to the other side of the animal.

  As her hands felt along the coat of the scrawny little donkey, she considered herself a fool. To have ever thought such a slight animal to somehow be an awful and frightening demon, she could only shake her head at the silliness of it all. Her own fingers told her of the stubby hair and firm muscles. Obviously, it was all a bit of overactive imagination.

  She worked her comb through the tight curls of hide, running her brush in circular patterns, copying Rethendrel’s hands. Alizarin became lost in the continuous rhythm. Whether it was working with bread, cleaning house, or currying beasts, it seemed part of her nature to fall into a trance when engaged in steady repetition. The tasks always went faster as her mind wandered.

  As she worked her way down the little chest toward the front legs, speckled with mud from the road, her comb caught on something underneath the front leg. At the same moment, Samton started. Baring his teeth at her comb’s intrusion, he snorted heavily and stamped the ground. She stepped back to see what had disturbed the beast.

  Rethendrel glanced up from his familiar work, and with a sympathetic gesture, said, “He gets a wee bit feisty after a long trip, or even a short one. Doesn’t like to work too much, or truly told, at all. Eh, Samton?” Stepping in front of her, his body eased in between her and the animal. “I’ll finish up here. Why don’t you go get a pail of lemon drink and two cups from the kitchen and I will give you the royal tour?”

  Having been so easily dismissed from her previous duty, Alizarin walked away from the smelly stalls. As she passed out of the barn doorway, her heart was lighter than it had been in days. In this place of sunshine and harvest there is no reason to fear. Waving at Theress, who stood in the kitchen window cleaning dishes, she hurried on to gather the appealing refreshments.

  After she had left the interior of the barn, Rethendrel muttered under his breath, “How could you be so clumsy?” He bent down to retrieve something laying on the ground, partially hidden in the hay and partially hidden by his large work boots. Shaking his head, looking out the barn doors toward the house. “More care next time. More care.” Throwing away the torn bit of brilliant blue tunic that had caught on the donkey’s foreleg, Rethendrel slowly finished his assigned tasks.

  *

  Chapter Six

  The Messenger’s Need

  Ilion’s eyes opened gradually to meet the green of willow leaves, waving above him. He lay still. His slowly awakening body and senses tingled and sharpened. His mind focused, adjusting to the viewpoint that met him this early sunrise. Cool breezes ruffled his hair, scattering the few leaves that had found temporary rest there. Breathing deeply, filling his lungs with crisp, vibrant air, Ilion awoke.

  He awoke strangely feeling fully rested. It felt almost as though he had slept in his mother’s arms, still a babe. The sight that greeted his vision with the early sun was the sheltering overfall of willow branches and the sighing bend of reeds rocking and singing with the movement of water through the creek. Pushing up his body with ease, he rested on one elbow, waiting for the nausea and dizziness of his head wound to catch up with his gesture. Oddly, there was no reaction from his head injury.

  Reaching up to carefully, gingerly inspect the knot of blood and bruise, his fingers found nothing. As terrible as the pain was, its absence was a wonder. Healed. Completely healed.

  Looking down at the staff, still clutched in his hand, he wondered. What has cured me so thoroughly?

  As he sat up, full of vitality and vim, his awareness took in the still form that lay to Ilion’s side, clutching the bone white staff as well: the second priest. The man’s chest rose and f
ell in a faint pattern, still alive but just barely. With a start, Ilion saw two new wounds, great claw marks stretching across and through the man’s shredded tunic, deep and oozing a coagulated green pus. Some sort of poison was clearly attacking the already beleaguered priest.

  Why hadn’t the staff protected them both?

  Acting quickly was the only chance the victim would have to survive. Ilion had only the contents of his pack, the breaded goods left for him by Alizarin and a few basics. So many resources in Dressarna, all out of reach at the crisis moment. He took out his bone knife, sharpened for a multitude of reasons and contemplated his options.

  He gathered in. Collecting and focusing all the items and information at his disposal, he looked for some solution to meet the needs of the grievously wounded man. Focused inward with a renewed sense of wellness, Ilion sifted and reasoned the options. Then he concluded on the best path, and having reached a decision, acted at once.

  Ilion placed the staff in both hands of the injured man, diagonally across the wounds. Then he opened the day purse of the dead priest and extracted two familiar vials. Not wondering for the moment how he knew they were there, he opened each and dropped a few splotches across the wounds. Ilion took out one of Alizarin’s day-old traveling breads, dense and heavy and broke it open. He scooped out the spongy insides, and laid them in the wounds.

  They drew out the poison, pulling away from the wounds the imminent threat. He discarded the soaked bread and applied more, repeating the process until the wounds seemed to ease of their rot and canker, becoming almost peaceable in their mere physical destructiveness. He added a few more drops from each vial and took a clean shirt from his pack. He cut it into strips and packed and bound the wounds as best he could.