Into the Raging Mountains Read online

  The torrid heat beat down. The ragged youth avoided most of it with the little bit of covering he had found, but the price was terrible all the same. Sweat dripped down his brow, the salty water caught on his eyelashes and stung. The inescapable heat dragged him down, pulling him closer and closer to the baking ground, beckoning him to succumb to the inevitable death that lurked over his shoulders, waiting.

  The fatigue had set in gradually and spread its wings. Little energy was left to him, but he used what he had to scoot slowly to the partial shade of the nearby stuccoed wall. The clay coating on the lower section still held a hint of coolness, almost a tease of relief. His hands touched the slightly less heated ground behind him. It seemed to wake him from a deepening despair.

  Before him on the ground, spread like the skirts of a traveling hunter girl, the three remaining clean blankets were covered in the few knickknacks salvaged from the destruction of the farm. Some metal bits from the animals’ tacks, a few pieces of jewelry, odds and ends with specific purpose and three tattered books lay on display as passerbys wandered around the outskirts of the town.

  His mind began to wander. His eyes blinked once, twice, and his vision seemed clear again, oddly clear, as his father came walking past, stopping in front of his scratched and scabbed feet. Kind eyes took in the suffering of his son, and with an ease never seen in life, he walked over to the side of the wall and sat next to the boy. “Oyo, boy. What goes here?”

  “Pa, it’s gone, all gone.”

  “What’s gone, then?” The gruff voice came low, questioning.

  “The farm, all of it, the house, the land, all gone.”

  A moment of silence passed, a moment of grief and commiseration.

  “Well, I am truly sorry for that lad, truly sorry. What will you do? What of your sister?” The questions were asked with the understanding of the fight of preservation, of cycles of farmlife, with the patience born of knowing the road would be difficult and joyous at different times, in different seasons.

  “I haven’t seen her since we parted four days past. I don’t know if she will find any help for us either. I came here. She went to the old temple site. Surely, Pa, someone will help us? What did we do to deserve this destruction? Why did this happen to us?”

  “Phhish, boyo. You could have done nothing different. What will be, will be. You just have to remember what’s important.” A hand rested lightly on the boy’s weary shoulder, “What did I tell you all those cycles growing up? Do you remember? What did I say?”

  Thinking but a moment, he answered, “Love is all that matters?”

  “Pa?” Bewildered, his eyes squinted around the nearby areas, “Pa?”

  But he was alone. Sitting on the side of the road, he had always been alone. And, now he knew that had to be sufficient. Sitting and waiting for pity would not find him an answer. It would not ease his suffering or bring him new opportunities. It was not enough to just wait for life to bring him the next relief, he had to figure out what he wanted and reach for it with all of his determination.

  Standing on youthful legs that had suddenly regained some energy, looking around at the feeble beggars that lined the road in huddles, asking for mercy, begging for assistance, the boy knew there was something better for him. He was worth more than that lowly death.

  Carefully rolling his blankets into packs, he shouldered the remnants of his life before and with purpose strode into the town itself. No more waiting for his end on the road outside, he would find the way to life inside the town. And, he would not be stopped. Rethendrel loved his family and like his father had always said, love is all that matters.

  *

  Her hair was flying, her face set in purpose. Her fist clenched, and she dug in deep. Turning her weight onto her other foot, she punched upward. The exhalation of breath was audible. The lights went out in his eyes. Falling to the ground like a burst sheep gut balloon, he lay there deflated, barely moving.

  Turning her indignation on the two remaining boys, she yelled, “What? Why are you still here? Do you want some more?” Faced with her anger and the defeat of their larger friend, they did not hesitate to turn and run. With her hands on her hips, she watched the cowards scamper away, blending quickly into the crowds, disappearing like the ghosts of an after-dinner belch. As if they were never even here. The sack of humanity that lay before her on the pebble-strewn dirt road was almost below her notice. Still, she deigned to speak to him, it, whatever. “Do you understand me now, Sarned? Am I sufficiently clear in my answer?”

  There was no answer immediately, although the question clearly registered with the young man who slowly regained his faculties. “Understand? Yes, I understand.” A flopping hand threw his body’s balance sideways as he slowly rolled over, coughing.

  “I just want to be clear here, Sarned. We will not have this conversation again.”

  “Perfectly clear. I will never again ask you to marry me.”

  “Nor try to kidnap me?” She pushed for finality, unwilling to go on fighting the same battle every day. This war would stop!

  “Nor try to kidnap you.”

  “Because I will make your life a living, breathing prison of despair should you ever try to touch me again.” Searching his face for any trace of a lie,“We understand each other?”

  “Yes, Theress, understood.”

  “Good. Be on your sorry way, then.”

  Turning her back on the besotted and beaten man, she gathered her small satchel and continued down the road, intent on her destination. That was unpleasant, she thought. Men are so dense. It was a wonder the world went round at all, with them in charge.

  Uncle was never kind to her, but at least he afforded her the chance to make a living. It wasn’t much but she had always been able to put away a few slips of coin here and there. Soon, she would have enough to start her own thread shop, with her own things and her own life. The next two seasons of pay would be sufficient.

  Then she would be owned by no man, and not a thing to be pushed around and controlled. The thought of that magnificent freedom was almost dizzying, it was so heady. So close to reality for the smart and quick shopgirl. Soon, very soon, she was to be mistress of her own livelihood. Already she was mistress of her own respect.

  Entering the cool shade of the corner shop, she breathed deep, as if she had held her breath since the “romantic” request of the early day. Men are so persistent and so needy! As if she could be strong enough for the both of them.

  No need to even consider linking her fortunes with that of Sarned, that was a path of drudgery and subservience even in her own home. The thought of it made her want to dig down and fight some more, to take on ten men if she had any hope of prevailing, just on the off chance she could avoid such a life.

  The hot, late growing season’s sun seemed to knife through tents and hats. The heat that drives men mad, it was often called. Grateful to have the thick roof over her head, reflecting most of the burning rays away from her, the day of bartering and orders passed easily as the one before it had, and the one before that. The trick was getting into a rhythm and talking to the interesting people who frequented the store. Then the moments flew.

  A rumble in her stomach told her she had waited too long to eat. Nodding to her eagle-eyed uncle who gestured toward the door, she slipped outside, covering her head against the sudden onslaught of slicing, sharp sunlight. Standing in front of her favorite vendor, the girl waited with a few others as the seasoned meat popped and sizzled on the grill, savoring the spicy, hot flavors of the cooking food, even as she tried to avoid the warmth from outside. A contradiction to be sure, but somehow eating spicy, seasoned food when it was scorching made her skin breathe better. Funny how that was.

  Her order was prepared and she quickly paid, walking away from the stall and sitting alone under the spreading protection of twin palms, rooted together. Biting deeply into the perfectly prepared meat, she thought to herself, There truly is nothing better than good food when you’re hungry and a
bit of shade from the growing sun.

  Finishing the first rolled crust, she licked a bit of stray juice off of the fat of her palm. Her eyes lifted in that moment. Her gaze was returned in full by a man not much out of his childhood, half-crouching in front of her. He looked her directly in the face, not speaking.

  Startled, she felt for her purse. He did not move.

  They watched each other as if there were no others in the vicinity, as if they were the only two people in the whole town.

  A few blinks later, she took one of her meat rolls and, without looking away, made a small gesture; she beckoned toward him.

  He still did not move.

  Larger in movement, the next waving of her hand was fuller and more sincere.

  “Come, take this,” she said. “You are weary. This will help.”

  His stare did not lighten. His attention was still focused so deeply on her face that she found herself reddening.

  “Please?” She whispered, awed by his intense inspection, awareness and devotion, her brown eyes searching his, imploring. “Please? You need this, here.”

  Her offer finally registered on his face. The fierceness softened slightly, though he did not look down to the offered roll.

  Instead, he raised his hands to her face and cupped her jaw.

  “You are the reason I am here,” he said. “You are the reason.”

  Leaning forward, he kissed her gently on the forehead, holding still for an eternity. The connection between them was so instantaneous and so powerful that she could not breathe, did not want to move, did not want to stop this odd and yet singular moment. She could feel his lips on her skin, mingling slight perspiration, with the overwhelming smell of tears and stale smoke.

  *

  Giving up seemed the most kind option. As it is almost impossible to fight when you only can think about food, when the last drips of water passed your lips sometime in the past, you can’t even remember when.

  Worst of all, they would die on the land that had sustained them, with no hope left in their hearts. Their minds were drifting off into the Great Dream from which men never awoke. Several sat and laid on the ground underneath the boughs of the stalwart apple orchard, resting from the peril of the burning sun. They had passed over an edge within their own minds, and waited passively for the end to come.

  There was nothing left of the farm except the very bones of the stone foundation, the firespit, and the bones of the men who had built it. Gathering water from the sunrise dew had been a chore gladly done, although they had lost energy to do more than wring out the cloth into the bucket. They divided the sparse liquid between them; a few sips for each wasn’t much and it wasn’t sufficient.

  Rising to its zenith, the uncaring, punishing sun forked its light through the tree cover. Eyes closed, they lay under the shelter of leaves, still listening for the sound of returning footsteps. They breathed shallowly, their limbs relaxed against the inevitable.

  Moments passed. Grandfather shuddered once, coughed and was still. His head lolled against the tree trunk, sinking onto his chest. He fell over.

  It was a small disturbance that only startled the sparrows in the tree limbs for a small moment. Then they went on with darting and swooping, flapping and seeking, content with the bounty of the trees. No one had the energy to move to help him. The body sat there, in their midst. None doubted they would join him soon.

  No one heard them come. No one knew. The rescuers were only suddenly there, lifting a head, cupping water into parched mouths that had forgotten the clear coldness of fresh drink. Only slowly, did eyelids open, fluttering against the brightness of middle sun.

  Blurry forms helped them, whispering conversations. Mush gruel was spooned into their slack mouths, most of which spilled onto their chins and dribbled down their shirts. So slowly did they return from the brink of death, looking around with wonder and an air of vast surprise, that only after most of the day had passed did they see who had come home, who had saved them.

  Lanky brown hair, parted on the side, still full of dirt and covered in the remnants of once fine clothes, Rethendrel lifted his family onto his shoulders and carried them, one by one to the tent’s wide awning. Even as they were delivered from death, they knew the hands of the Gods must have been protecting them, must have plucked them from the clutches of death’s unyielding grasp. With a tiny amount of food in their shrunken bellies, the survivors slept. They dreamt no Great Dream.

  Awaking, alert to the new day, they were brought to awareness by the smell of cacao drifting through their dreams. Still too weak to rise, they felt the surge of wetness in their parched mouths; spittle returned in force. Voices were heard around the burnt remnants of the stone firespit, from somewhere nearby. Helping hands raised them upright and they were fed. Gladness filled their eyes and faces, glowing from the tattered scarecrows. It took a few administrations of tiny mush meals and lukewarm cacao before they could talk to their saviors.

  “Not a moment too soon, not a moment,” many of them whispered.

  “Yes, yes. Truly the Gods have spared us I have brought back someone to meet you all.” With a beckoning gesture, soft in its command though the gesture of equals, she came over to the tent opening. “This is Theress. She is the one who should be thanked. These supplies are all from her provisions, freely given.”

  He looked at her again, lost in contemplation. He was silent for a moment or two while he watched her greet his family and friends. Tears came to his eyes as he saw her care and concern for strangers.

  He continued on with earnestness and gratitude, “With all of her life’s savings she has bought us a reprieve from the hands of death! What’s more, we have bought seeds for the late growing season that must be planted soon. But they will ripen quickly and we will have more than enough to trade for the coming of the cold. So, gather your energy, Corded clan, gather it fast! We must be about our rebuilding!” A cheer sprang from their mouths. “To work then, to work!” and they began to change their farmstead, cleaning, clearing, planting, bending, breaking, making anew a second life’s opportunities.

  *

  The Present

  A woman ran through the wildlands near the mountain village. Reeds whipped her face. Like feathers, they softly parted, lingering a moment and losing possession of her hair. They seemed to sigh in the wake of her passing. Onward she ran, never looking back. She took no care to hide her footprints; too great of haste was required. A tiny trail of black and iridescent green bits of cloth dotted the land at her passing, scattered here and there. With suppleness she jumped the stones that lined the brook and ran through the water for part of the daylight. That was the only care she took against being followed. Her goal was more important. Her goal was everything. I must return, I must!

  Racing for home, tears streamed down her face, collecting at her neck, flung off of her running body with the mixture of sweat and the intimate brush of leaves and reeds; they mingled with the brook’s waters marking a trail of sorrow.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Surrounded

  In the end, it was Laylada who left him. Cethel was not one to linger where he was not wanted, and he never got any clear indication whether she liked him or not. Every time he left presents on her doorstep, the gifts were taken but with no acknowledgment.

  She knows it's me, he thought. She knows, she just doesn't want to admit it. So he lingered, in the distance, a glimpse away from being seen, waiting for his chance, sure that it would come. He was sure that the right moment would transpire and she would step away from her friends and walk up to him and say … and say … everything he wanted to hear and more.

  Following her around through the days of more than two cycles, he knew her daily routine, her every move and most of her desires. He was a better friend to her than anyone. The various things she wanted or admired he would purchase or steal and lay them as door offerings. Why such loyalty was not rewarded was beyond his understanding.

  But seasons came and went, on and
on with no change nor sign of affection from her lips. His limited patience passed, his frustration grew and with bitter determination he stopped waiting one day. He stopped coming to find her, to shadow her on her walks, to leave flowers on her steps. He decided she didn't love him, didn't care if he lived or died, and didn't deserve his time and attention. Either that or she was as dumb as a rotten woodpile. So one day, he just stopped.

  That resolve only lasted four turns of the sun. Then she smiled at him, or was it at the teacher? And his heart lurched in its tracks and was completely derailed again. With the force of emotions present in his mind and heart, he hated her and loved her at the same moment.

  Cethel took to the woods, even though traveling outside the village boundaries was banned by his father. The love-stricken boy took to the forest and the wildness of the trees because it was the only freedom he had, the only escape. It was only a brief surcease, but one he needed each sunrise from her constant presence and the lilting sound of her beloved voice.

  After cycles of trailing his father and his uncle in and out of the wooded land, Cethel felt no fear at the village's new restrictions, just a small amount of caution. He still glided comfortably within the shade of entwined boughs, though he moved more slowly now and watched everything.

  I’m hungry. It came unbidden to his mind that there was still food in in the abandoned larder under Mardint and Tabitha's homestead. Food was always scarce. Go there, he thought, go there and take whatever is left. Pa always says you never know when a bit of extra food stores will come in handy. My own personal stock! Thoughts of snacks whenever he wanted them drove all other considerations from his mind. Off he went into the heavy foliage.

  He covered a decent bit of ground without seeing a soul. Ever since the ninnies in the village had declared the forest off boundaries he never saw anyone else in the cover of the woods. He wasn't scared. He wasn't worried. Or so he kept telling himself, over and over as he started at the sudden movements of the few small animals fleeing his approach.