The woman laughed, and Samara could tell that these people were used to laughing. “Jameel is a Havallan term that means beautiful.”
Smiling again, Samara said, “Thank you.” The woman tilted her head slightly to the side, waiting for her to answer the first question. Blushing, Samara dropped her gaze.
“What tribe are you with?” the woman asked.
“The Panthera tribe,” Samara said, raising her chin proudly. Illtud nudged her again, but she continued to ignore him.
“The tribe with the blacksmith?” the woman asked. Then she peered up thoughtfully. After a short pause, she said, “Orin, right?”
“Yes!” Samara shouted excitedly, jumping on her toes. “My father! You know my father?”
“I don’t know him, but I know of him, jameel. He is renowned for being the only barbarian blacksmith.” She smiled. “You must be the little girl the ogre carried all over the Gathering.”
“Nikatsu! Yes, he’s my friend,” Samara said, remembering her fun experiences with her father and Nikatsu at the Gathering.
“You are very far from your home. Are you alone?” the woman asked. Samara almost mentioned Sigmia and Illtud, but then nodded her head, deciding it was best not to say anything yet. “Do you want to tell me about it?” Samara shook her head no, frowning again. “Would you like to come with us then?”
Her eyes widening, Samara glanced up at the woman, wondering if she honestly meant that. After traveling alone, with only Illtud, she hungered for companions. Growing up, she had always enjoyed the company of many people.
Illtud’s urging came back stronger, and she let him talk. Be careful. She may appear nice, but I’m telling you, they are bad people.
I like her, Samara responded. Can’t we please go with them?
She’s trying to trick you, he said. But go with them and learn for yourself.
“Can I?” she asked the woman, hopping on her toes and clasping her hands in front of her. “Please!”
“Of course you can, jameel,” the woman said, bending over so her eyes were level with Samara’s. “My name is Varisha. What is yours?”
Looking down, her cheeks coloring, she said, “Samara.” She didn’t know why she felt so shy around Varisha.
“Samara? That is a Havallan name.” Brightening, Samara glanced up. The story of how she got her name was her father’s favorite story, and she liked to tell it, too.
When she saw Varisha gazing down at her expectantly though, she hesitated and returned her eyes to the ground. “My parents named me Samara after the Havallan priestess that saved my life as a baby.”
Varisha placed her hand on Samara’s shoulder. “You have quite an interesting story, don’t you?” Removing her hand, she placed it on the boy’s head. “Samara, this is my son Omar, and the rest of us are back at the road.” She straightened and started through the grass, Omar in tow. She took a few steps, then peeked over her shoulder. “Come.”
The road lay a distance from the burbling river, and the farther they went, the more voices Samara began to hear. Uneasiness slowed her pace, and she lagged behind her new friends. Concentrating on the sounds, she detected a great deal of laughter and the babble of many conversations; however, a beautiful melody carried over the din.
Varisha turned her head again and said, “Come, Samara, we’re almost there. Don’t be shy.” Joining the other voice, she broke out in song. Omar turned toward Samara and suddenly seized her hand. Gasping, she allowed him to pull her along at a trot.
When the trio stepped out of the tall grass, Samara’s jaw dropped. In front of her stood a whole village with their houses on wheels, some being pulled by massive animals with humps on their backs, others by horses.
In this manner, the moving village rolled slowly down the road. She could hardly believe the number of people, all of them dressed as flamboyantly and smiling as freely as Varisha.
The source of the singing she had heard sat on the front of one of the moving houses. To Samara, the structures, which were trimmed with scrollwork around the edges, doors, and windows, looked like giant, colorful boxes with wide, wooden wheels. Gold plated some of the art carved around the entrances, and wooden beasts and birds crouched on the carriage roofs.
Men and women danced next to the mobile houses and performed amazing acrobatic feats. Varisha traded conversation with an older man who sat next to the singing woman.
His aquiline nose perched atop his bush of a beard, and his clothing matched Omar’s. As he smiled at Samara, she could see yellow teeth through his wiry hair.
The singing woman ceased her song and exchanged some words with Varisha as well. Samara heard her name mentioned, but that was the extent of her understanding. The singer’s clothes displayed many more colors than Varisha’s, but they also covered more of her older body, and a sky-blue veil hid her face.
They all laughed, and then the singer said to Samara, “Welcome to our troupe, young one. We are very happy to have you with us.”
Samara stared at her, wide-eyed, surprised that this woman also spoke her language.
Still smiling and following her gaze, the older man said, “Jameel, we Khaliji are nomads, very much like your people. These wagons are our homes. We are performers and craftsmen, and we travel across Havalla, trading our talents for coin. Sometimes, we travel out of Havalla to trade with others.” Indicating himself first and then the singer, he said, his voice deep and pleasant. “I am Heyam, and this is Ghazal.”
Too embarrassed to respond, Samara stepped behind Varisha’s skirt. Ghazal laughed, the loose cloth over her mouth bouncing. “The Khaliji are not shy. That will have to be the first thing you learn.”
Varisha smiled and turned to Samara. Talking to Ghazal, she said, “All in good time, Mother.” Then she knelt in front of Samara and said, “Would you like some food, jameel?”
Samara nodded. Varisha barked something to Omar in their nasal tongue. Smiling, the boy led Samara to the door of the wagon and climbed up. He reached out his hand and helped her to the top.
The wagon lurched forward as Heyam started the horses moving again. Having never ridden in a wagon before, Samara felt a little uncomfortable with all the bouncing as its wheels rolled along.
Steadying herself on a counter, she examined the inside of the wagon, filled with all manner of interesting items. She saw clothing of many colors, odd trinkets, and various other novelties that were unfamiliar to her. Incense permeated the enclosed wagon. A padded bench extended lengthwise across from a wooden counter filled with little wooden knobs. At the rear of the house lay two beds, one above the other.
Samara’s people had horses for carrying their yurts and possessions, which were very few. They had to disassemble and pack them up before they moved on. These people had all manner of things. Just one of these wagons could carry enough for three of her tribe’s families.
She removed her bags and placed them on the floor, out of the way. Examining the wooden knobs, she determined that they were handles that opened more storage spaces.
Charmed by the way these people lived, she imagined telling her father all about it. But no . . . she couldn’t do that. She started to cry, and Omar said something to her, patting her back.
After a while, he walked over to a wooden item that looked like a stringed instrument her people played called a kobyz. This one seemed like a voluminous gourd that had been cut in half longways, and across the flat part of it, eleven strings stretched tightly. Through her tears, she watched Omar adjust some knobs while plucking the strings. They made a beautiful sound.
He brought the instrument over to her and said, “Barbat.” Sitting on one of the cushioned chairs, he began to play. His hands moved rapidly over the neck of the instrument, strumming the strings to make music. The slow, sad melody didn’t stop Samara’s tears, but she felt entranced by the tune.
The kobyz only had two strings, and the strings were not plucked but had a bow that was dragged across them. The two instruments sounded very differen
t from one another.
Swaying to the music, she smiled. Omar started up a faster tune, and Samara sat next to him, kicking her feet absently in time with his songs. Then he slowed the pace and sang softly.
While he performed, Samara closed her eyes and lay down. The seat was long enough for her to lie across, and it was very soft, much softer than the ground she had slept on since leaving the plains. She laid her head on Omar’s lap, and soon fell asleep.
*****
When Samara woke, darkness slipped through the windows of the wagon. Omar was asleep, but not where he had been; instead, he slept on the floor below her. The inside of the wagon seemed bigger than before, as if some of the items had been removed. She also noticed that the wagons were no longer moving.
As she lay at the front of the wagon, she heard people talking, but she didn’t understand their words. She remained as still as possible, not wanting to draw attention to herself.
While she lay there, Illtud said, I can tell you what they’re saying if you want me to.
I don’t think I should, Samara responded.
They’re talking about you, Illtud said.
What are they saying about me? Repositioning so that she could see the source of the voices, she found that they were outside, on the rear porch of the wagon.
They’re trying to decide what to do with you. Out of habit, Samara cocked an ear to the knife while Illtud talked. The woman, Varisha, would like to adopt you, but the man’s worried about feeding you and thinks they should leave you with the river people.
I don’t want to go there. I want to see my mother. Samara’s brow creased.
Then we should leave and continue on by ourselves, Illtud said.
Samara felt tears threatening to come back, but she forced them away. But I like them.
I understand. I like them too, but they’re Havallan, he said.
You like them? she asked, her nose wrinkling.
Of course I do. Elves love music and performance arts, and they’ve been very nice to you, Illtud said. You know I’m still your friend, right?
Yes, Samara said.
She remained as still as possible while the conversation outside continued. When it finally stopped, she decided to take Illtud’s advice. If they were to take her to the river people, that would take her farther from where her mother was.
As quietly as she could, she slipped off of the seat and crawled to the front door. Omar’s heavy breathing dominated all the other sounds. She stood up very quietly, cringing at the creaking the floor of the wagon made. Unexpectedly, Omar shifted, turning to face her. Her heart beat in her throat while she stood as still as she could.
When he didn’t move again and his heavy breathing resumed, she advanced very slowly and carefully to her belongings. Shouldering her backpack and bag, she tiptoed to the exit. The yurts of her people had flaps separating the interior from the outdoor environment. The wagon’s entry, on the other hand, consisted of a door that latched shut with hinges, a foreign concept to Samara.
Lifting the latch, she started to open the door, but the old hinges squeaked loudly in the night, so she stopped. Making another attempt, she inched the door open, trying her best to not make any sounds.
Eventually, she opened it far enough to slip outside without making any noise. However, shutting it was just as slow of a process as opening it had been. After she finally escaped the wagon, she stepped onto the road.
Tiny pebbles crunched under her feet. She had never known how hard sneaking was. As she snuck off the road, nervousness tensed every muscle in her body. Slowly, carefully, she slipped into the woods. Taking a deep breath of relief, she relaxed somewhat.
She started slinking away from the road. At this point, she didn’t care which way she went. She just needed to get away.
As she moved away from the Khaliji, she saw a white aura lumped oddly against a tree. The bulge didn’t quite fit in with the rest of the landscape; rather, it looked like the tree had a huge, pulsating protrusion on the bottom of its trunk. She froze, the hairs on the back of her neck rising.
At about the same time, Illtud warned her, Don’t go that way. Too late. Out of the darkness, the shape said, in a familiar voice, “Mn Honak?” The bulge lengthened into the shape of a person, and Samara realized the figure had been relieving herself.
It was Varisha, and she walked over to Samara. “What are you doing, jameel? It’s late.”
“I-I . . .” Samara stammered. She couldn’t think of anything to say. Feeling trapped, she stared at the ground. If the night had permitted it, Varisha would have seen the blush in the girl’s pale skin.
Varisha noticed the bags and asked, “Where are you going, Samara? I thought you wanted to come with us.”
Be careful what you tell her. Tell her that you must find your parents, and they’re going the wrong way, Illtud said, guiding her.
“My mom is living with elves—” Samara started.
Illtud interrupted. No! Don’t tell her that.
“With elves? You poor dear, that is terrible.” Varisha bent down and hugged Samara.
Confused, Samara asked, “Terrible? Why?”
Pushing her arm’s-length away, Varisha peered into her face. “The elves kidnap people and take them across the sea.”
Samara started crying, pushing herself into Varisha’s skirts to hide her face.
Varisha stroked her hair. “People taken by the elves are never seen again. They live somewhere across the ocean, and none have yet returned that have gone there.” She picked Samara up. “You’re a brave little girl, but you don’t want to go to the elves.”
She’s repeating Havallan lies, Illtud said.
Still crying, Samara said, “But I don’t want to go with the river people either.”
“The river people?” Varisha positioned Samara on her hip and started walking back to the wagons. “Who told you that?” Before Samara could answer, they stepped out onto the road.
Ghazal sat at the front of her wagon, crocheting something by candlelight. Sounding angry, Varisha rattled off something to the older woman in her own language. The two of them argued for a bit.
Finally, she turned back to Samara. “Who told you of the river people, jameel?”
Don’t tell them about me. They’ll take me away from you, and they’ll take your father’s knife with me, Illtud said.
“I heard you talking,” Samara said, keeping her gaze on the dirt road instead of Varisha’s eyes. The two older women were quiet. When they remained silent, their eyes boring into her, she glanced up at them.
“You speak Havallan?” Varisha asked.
Again, Samara blushed and looked away, preferring to study the scrollwork on the wagons rather than the gaze of the older women. They started up their conversation again. Soon, Heyam came out of a wagon and yelled something, silencing the women.
After all was quiet, he spoke again, and Varisha responded to him. He sighed and went back in. Varisha stomped off with Samara in her arms, and stepped into the wagon that Omar slept in.
“My mother insists she did not tell you anything.” She sat Samara on the couch and carefully picked up Omar. He stirred a little as she transferred him over to one of the beds. “Can you tell me, please, who told you that we were going to leave you with the river people?”
Insist that the old woman, Ghazal, told you, Illtud instructed.
Samara watched as Varisha lit some candles and sat down next to her, waiting for a response. “I don’t know. I just knew,” she said, crying through her last few words. The woman put her arm around the her and pulled her close. “It’s alright, dear. You’ve been through some rough times. I’m taking you with me.”
Wiping her eyes dry, Samara said, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I would like you to stay with Omar and me.” Squeezing Samara lovingly, she let the little girl rest against her. “You see, Samara, we all contribute in our troupe, even Omar. He can perform—juggle, play music, even sing. He earns gold for
us, which we can use to buy food and other supplies. My father and mother think you would be happier with the fishing people and that you won’t fit in with us. I told them we will leave it up to you.”
Sitting up, Samara said, “I would rather stay. I can help.”
“I’m sure you can, jameel.” Varisha smiled at her.
Leaping off the seat, Samara reached into her bags while Varisha watched curiously. She opened her pack and pulled out a considerable pile of herbs she had collected along the way. Below that were the ones Sigmia had given her. They were already organized and processed.
She placed these on the seat next to Varisha. “I was being trained by our shaman to take her place. I know lots about medicines and herbs.” Shuffling through the small leather bags, she found the one she knew was licorice. “Chewing on this helps clean teeth. It tastes good and is much better than washing them. Heyam could use this.”
“You know what all this stuff does?” Varisha asked, investigating several bags.
“Yes,” Samara said, hopping on her toes. The wagon shook with her enthusiasm, so she stopped jumping, embarrassed.
Chuckling, Varisha said, “This is very good. We will have to show Heyam first thing in the morning.” Placing her forefinger under her nose, she pursed her lips. “I think we should also introduce you to our healer. He might appreciate your help.”
Samara’s mouth dropped slightly, and her eyes widened. “You have a healer?”
Varisha unconsciously mimicked her expression and chuckled again. “Yes, we have a healer. Does this excite you?”
Hopping once, Samara caught herself and stopped. “Yes!”
“Good. I want you to sleep though.” After seeing the girl’s disappointment, Varisha continued, “Everyone else is going to sleep, so we must wait.”
“Alright,” Samara said. Standing up, Varisha lifted the young girl. She carried her over to the top bunk and helped her in.
“Go to sleep, jameel. In the morning, we will talk to everyone,” Varisha said.
“I still need to get to my mother,” Samara said, still smiling. Varisha seemed so helpful and friendly; surely, she would help with this.
The Unfettered Child Page 20