With those words pouring out of him, he felt corny, like he was Anure Rahk. He also knew the advice he gave was easier said than done; he knew it all too well, given that he rarely practiced it. But he felt it needed to be said anyway. His heart was beating fast and he anxiously awaited Kali’s reaction.
She was quiet for a moment, looking down at the table, averting her eyes.
Finally, she glanced up at him and said quietly, “Thanks.”
He smiled at her. “There’s nothin’ to thank me for,” he said. “It’s just the truth.” He took another pull of his rum and said, “So, you still want some stories? I might have a few.”
Kali cracked a grin as well, which warmed him. She said, “Yeah. I wanna paint a clearer picture in my head before we get over there.”
He grinned wider. “That sentence seems more like a when than an if,” he said. “Someone’s feelin’ more confident in our ability to find this damn book, I think!”
“How could I not be?” Kali chuckled. “My companion is the only person in the world to slay a mighty beast with his shoe.”
- -
Weynard was a small village surrounded by miles and miles of desert. It was fairly secluded and modest, even compared to other desert towns. The population was small and self-sustaining, and its residents liked it that way. It was a close-knit community, far from the troubles of the world.
There was an oasis at the center of the village, a beautiful shimmering body of water lined with trees of dark green leaves and thick trunks. Buildings circled the water, red clay structures that were all connected to each other, acting like a perimeter wall enclosing the oasis. Various buildings were two to four stories high, home to different families or businesses, some establishments connected by rope bridges that swayed lightly in the wind. A lot of the architecture had sensibilities similar to centript hives, hence the connected buildings. There were even some that contained tunnels leading underground, then back up into buildings on the other side of town.
Kali and Puk had a bit of trouble locating the town’s inn, which was a small, quaint establishment called The Restful Oasis that blended in with the other buildings. The place was smaller than any other inn Kali had seen before, and it took her a minute to realize it was actually someone’s home; the village clearly did not anticipate many visitors. And with good reason, evidently, since the two of them seemed to be the only guests.
The homeowner, a kind elderly woman named Grace, welcomed them into her home with a gap-toothed smile. “I got three bedrooms available,” she informed them, her voice shaky but cheerful. “The Ayote Room, the Mahnek Room, and the Wrenwing Room—that’s the honeymoon suite,” she added with a sly wink.
“The Wrenwing Room!” Puk said with a buffoonish grin.
“No, no,” Kali interjected. “Whichever’s cheapest is fine.”
“The Ayote Room it is, then,” Grace said. She hobbled over to a drawer and pulled out an old, black key. “This way!” She then began her distressingly slow ascent to the upper floor of the house.
Ever since their conversation at the outpost, though, there had been something Kali wanted to do once they arrived in Weynard.
She told Puk, “You go on ahead and get all our stuff settled in. I’ll be back in a bit.” She slung her knapsack onto the floor beside the qarm, who looked up at her quizzically.
One eyestalk turned to peer at the staircase before turning to address Kali. “At her rate, I’m only gonna be halfway up the stairs by the time you get back.”
Kali chuckled and swooped through the doorway back outside.
The sun was nearly concealed by the horizon, but she still felt its warmth and nourishment soaking through her skin after so many hours basking in it. Between that and her plump waterskin, she wouldn’t need a meal until they reached Pontequest, and maybe not even until they returned to Restick. Tracking down a delicious, sugary pastry might be on the docket, though.
The clay border of buildings practically opened right up to the oasis at the town’s center. There was a pathway separating the various entryways and the line of trees and greenery, but it was no more than sand a few strides wide. There was no need for cobbled walkways here.
Kali strolled down the makeshift path, closely examining the entryways of each building she passed, trying to discern which were homes and which were shops. Very few had distinct markings to specify. Perhaps residents knew their way around, but Weynard was proving not to be an especially visitor-friendly town.
No luck. She would have to knock on every door if she wanted to find any answers here.
She glanced to her left, past the trees, and saw several people gathered at the shoreline of the oasis. There were kids running around, playing catch with a small ball painted a dull white, and many adults sprawled out in the sand taking pulls from beer bottles.
Might as well ask the locals, she decided.
She stepped through the treeline, appreciating the feel of leaves brushing against her skin after so long surrounded by nothing but sand and dry air. Down by the water, she approached two faif men who had made an impressive pile of empty bottles between the two of them and were guffawing over something they had said. Her footsteps were uneven in the shifting sand.
“Excuse me,” she said, bringing their yaps to a stop. The two men turned to look at her over their shoulders and smiled amiably.
“Hey there, miss,” the closer one said, nodding his head toward her in greeting. His skin was orange with bright stripes of green that culminated in delicate spirals.
The other did likewise and asked, “Some’in y’need help with?”
“I was wondering if either of you knew where I could buy a musical instrument?” she asked. “A music shop, or a secondhand store, or…”
“Ain’t no music shops ’round here, f’sure,” said the second man with an amused grunt. “Our musicians make their own stuff, don’t need no shop to buy it from, eh?” His comrade nodded in concurrence.
Kali was slightly disheartened, but asked, “Do you know anyone who might have a classical lute? Or a duraga? I’d be happy to buy one from whoever might have them.” Maybe a local player would be willing to part with one of their creations.
The men considered her question a moment, then the closer one piped up. “Jim plays, right? I bet he’d have some extras.” He looked to his companion for confirmation, and received it. To Kali, he said, “Jim Reyn might have what you’re lookin’ for. He’s the best duraga player either of us has ever seen, right?” More affirmation from the other man.
“That’d be great,” Kali said excitedly. “Do you know where I can find him?”
Between the two of them, the men managed to cobble together directions to Jim Reyn’s house, which was on the opposite side of the oasis.
It was a pleasant walk, though as the sun sunk into the distant dunes, Kali discovered there was no outdoor lighting of any kind set up in Weynard. She had to navigate solely by moonlight, which made things marginally more difficult.
But eventually she came to the nondescript door she believed belonged to Jim Reyn, and gave it a tentative knock. After waiting a full minute to no avail, she had to give it one more knock before someone finally answered.
“Yeah, yeah, hold on!” came a crabby voice from inside. Seconds later, the door swung open to reveal a hunched-over man whose skin was dark purple mottled with blue. He walked with a thin, crooked cane and wore a scowl on his wrinkled face.
“Jim Reyn?” Kali asked.
The man huffed and said, “Yep, yeah, what’s it?”
She was rattled by his demeanor, and it took her a second to say, “My name’s Kali. I was told you’re a pretty skilled duraga player.”
Jim waved away the compliment, still frowning. He said, “I’s eatin’ dinner.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” said Kali.
“Stew.”
She blinked and said, “Okay.” Then, “I can come back later, if you’d prefer.” She certainly didn’t want to intru
de on the old man’s meal.
“No, no, stew’s hot and it’ll only get colder. What’s your need?”
Kali did not understand why that was a reason for her to stay, but she moved past it and said, “Well, I was wondering if you had a spare duraga you’d be willing to part with. For a price, of course.” She pulled out her small cloth bag of crescents. The coins clinked together inside.
Jim’s eyebrows raised and his scowl lessened at the sound of the coins. “I’s a duraga player, mhm,” he nodded. “Just made a new one last month. Good one. New one. Some old ones still knockin’ around somewheres.” He cocked his head back, indicating she could enter, and his neck audibly popped. But he ambled back into the house without another word, grumbling to himself. Something about his stew.
She followed him through his tiny home (filled with the spicy aroma of a meaty stew) and into his bedroom, where she smiled at the sight of six duragas leaning against the wall by a pillow and rumpled-up sheets on the floor.
While she inspected the instruments, Jim fetched the newest piece of the collection, of which he was wildly proud. He held it up for Kali to examine.
It was a beauty. Far prettier than any duraga she ever commissioned and sold. It was painted a gleaming white, a stark contrast against the six natural brown ones propped up along the wall. The end of the neck was painted black, which gradually faded to white as it got closer to the body. Lining the body and neck were dots of color, alternating green, blue, and pink. Around the sound hole there were words painted in the same colors, but Kali couldn’t decipher what they said.
The man beamed as she looked it over, and she returned the smile. “It’s gorgeous,” she told him.
“I know,” said Jim. “Thank ya. This the duraga I’m gonna die with. Hopes are that it’ll be wrapped in m’hands when I go.” He proceeded to tuck it away beside his pillow again.
Kali returned her attention to the older instruments, which looked drab now in comparison to the other. They were all the normal, natural brown color, with the rounded ayote shell backs pressing against the wall, causing the instruments to lazily roll to one side or the other. The bristles of hair had been retained on the shells, not sanded away like some more professional crafters tended to do. Jim was an amateur, but his passion was evident in the craftsmanship, and each successive duraga looked better than the last.
“Are there any you’re open to selling?” she asked, trying to pinpoint the one in the bunch with the highest quality.
“Any o’em,” said Jim with a grunt. “I’s said I’m dyin’ with th’other. Don’t got no need for the rest.”
Kali knelt down, having chosen the duraga she wanted. It was the fifth in the row, and appeared to be the newest one of the set. Its face was slightly less scratched, its neck free of chipping. It was plain, but well-made, and the strings looked relatively fresh.
She picked it up by the neck and asked, “How much would you like for it?”
Jim shrugged. It was obvious he’d never given any thought to selling his creations. In all likelihood they would have remained there, gathering dust while he plucked away on his shiny new white duraga. He didn’t even bother to put forth an offer.
Kali had some experience selling duragas, so she knew what was fair. The ones she sold usually netted her anywhere between one hundred and one hundred and fifty crescents. These weren’t the best she’d ever seen, and would typically garner a lower price, around twenty or twenty-five. But she wanted to help support the man. Especially after stealing him away from his stew for so long.
“How’s thirty crescents sound?” she asked him. It was more than generous, though she doubted he knew that. Thirty would be a slight blow to their funds, but in her heart she knew it’d be worthwhile.
“Sure,” he mumbled. Thirty was better than zero, which was the amount he would’ve previously ended the day with.
She gleefully handed over the money and walked back to the front door with the instrument in hand. She thanked Jim again, and he muttered something inaudible, probably about his stew.
The Weynard walkway was now more illuminated by the moonlight, and she raced back to the Restful Oasis. As she did so, she wondered if Puk made it to their room yet.
As it turned out, he had.
Grace greeted Kali as she reentered the tiny abode, and she bolted up the stairs to find a door with an ayote’s silhouette painted on it. It had to be the Ayote Room. She gave it a light rap with her knuckles to warn Puk she was entering.
The qarm was outstretched in the middle of the floor, gazing dumbly at the ceiling. He had not yet looked her way and seen the duraga in her hands.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Laying.”
“On the floor.”
“Thought I’d let you get the bed. Didn’t wanna get my sweat all over it. Not sure I can get up now. Too hungry and tired to move.”
Kali laughed at him. Then she said, “Well, I’ve got something for you. Think you can move at least a stalk?”
“Maybe I can manage,” he said, lifting his left eyestalk off the ground to look over at her, still standing in the doorway.
That one eye widened at the sight of the duraga. He pushed himself up off the floor, and his other eye widened to match. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
“I’ll be honest, it’s not the best duraga I’ve ever seen,” she said, “and I couldn’t find a regular lute, but I assumed this was the next best thing.” She walked over to him, still sitting on the ground, and handed him the instrument.
“Why’d…?” he muttered, examining the instrument. He shivered as the hairs on its back bristled against his skin. “I don’t even play,” he said.
She nodded. “That’s why,” she said. “I thought you might wanna get back into it. It’s not your fault your last one got busted up, after all.” She smiled. “Does it seem okay?”
“It seems great,” he said. “A little morbid with the shell on the back, but really great. I should not show this to Bella,” he chuckled. He flipped it back around and nestled the curve of the body on his leg. For a moment, it seemed he was about to play something, but he stopped himself.
“Go on,” Kali urged him. She longed to hear him play a song.
But his eyestalks drooped.
“It’s been so long…” His voice was a whisper.
“I’m sure you’ve still got the skills,” she said cheerily.
“You don’t know if I ever had the skills in the first place,” he pointed out.
“I never said they were good skills, I’m just sayin’ I bet you’ve still got the same skills you had before,” she teased.
Puk looked back down at the duraga and sighed.
But then something within him changed. His eyes lit up, and he bolstered himself. He took a moment to readjust the positioning, then placed his fingertips on the strings, lightly grazing them along all ten thin strands.
“What should I play?” he asked.
The only song that immediately came to mind was “Sweet Sheri,” but she’d heard him sing that plenty of times before. She yearned for something fresh. Something original.
“Play one of yours,” she said.
That expression of worry returned to his round, blue face. But he did not contest.
“They ain’t any good,” he muttered, but readied his fingers. “You want a sad one, a happy one, or a horny one?”
The latter intrigued her. “I thought qarms were asexual. What inspired you to write ‘a horny one’?”
“Money. People love horny ones. Sometimes you gotta write to the market to make any money,” he grinned. “I’ve got one called ‘The Cuckold in the Cannery,’ if you’re interested.”
“Well, as intriguing as that sounds, let’s go with happy this time,” she said. “This is a happy occasion, isn’t it?”
Puk nodded, thought for a moment, then said, “I never got to perform this one.” He began to play.
The song started with him wh
istling a simple tune, accompanied by nimble, flighty plucks on the duraga.
“I’ve come to see the sea in spring
Ways the waves crash is tiring
You’re why I’m stuck in this town
After the spring’s come and it’s gone
Waving goodbye, goodbye
You’re why I’m sittin’ here alone in the port
Watchin’ the ships come and they go while I get high
Well, now
You’re in my head, I’ve lost my mind
The salt of the sea engulfing me has froze to rime
My eyes are blurred, I’ve lost my sight
I’m sinkin’ below, the dark has swallowed all the light
My ship has fallen to the sea
The waves are grasping, how they scream
I’m at the bottom of the sea
And I saw you
You watched me go, watched me go down.”
He returned to the whistled melody, like a bird merrily chirping on the breeze. Kali listened and watched him with sad eyes. He whistled through the verse’s melody, then sang the chorus again, ending softly with, “You watched me go, watched me go down.”
Spit and Song (Ustlian Tales Book 2) Page 31