Age of Death

by Michael

  “Padera, my love. It took you long enough!”

  The handsome kid rushed forward and the two embraced, kissing as lovers.

  Everyone applauded.

  Moya waited, watching the reunion and sighing in relief. Brin came over to join her. The Keeper looked confused. When the lovers broke apart, the old woman noticed the pair. “Moya? Brin? By the Grand Mother, what are you two doing here?”

  “I suppose we could say the same about you,” Moya said.

  “Hardly. I’m long overdue, so that shouldn’t be such a surprise.” The rest of the party joined them, and the old woman appeared shocked. “I’d heard you were going to a swamp, but honestly, I didn’t think it was dangerous. Brin didn’t make it sound that way.”

  “It’s a long story,” Brin said. “But you . . . you were fine when I left. You had a bit of a cold, but I didn’t think it was anything serious, and now you’re here and looking so—”

  “Brin.” Padera waved her hand, interrupting the girl. “You’re going to think this is odd, but I have a message for you. I thought it was for when you got back, but finding you here . . . well . . .”

  “It’s from Malcolm, isn’t it?” Tressa said.

  Padera looked over, surprised. “It is. How did you know?”

  “Oh, bother that! What did he say?”

  “Simmer down. You’re dead and still just as pushy as ever.”

  “Get on with it, old woman.”

  Padera turned away from Tressa and focused on Brin. “I was tired—body and soul—and just getting into bed when he came in. I was surprised because he’d been gone for years, and most men just don’t walk into a woman’s tent uninvited.”

  The face of the handsome young man who had kissed Padera hardened.

  She patted his hand and gave him a warm smile. “Wasn’t anything like that. Not to worry. Oh, everyone, this is my husband. Melvin, this is Brin, Roan, Gifford, Moya, Tressa, and the two foreigners over there are Tekchin and Rain.”

  The kid looked to be no more than eighteen, but he was built like a Dherg fortress, with long, beautiful hair the color of late-season maple syrup.

  “This is your husband?” Moya asked.

  Padera grinned her toothless smile and nodded. “Ain’t he something?”

  “He’s so . . .” Moya swallowed. “Young. No offense, Padera, but watching your old mushed-up face smooching him is a sight I could have done without.”

  Melvin looked confused. “She looks exactly the way she did on our wedding day.”

  Padera laughed, looked down at her hands, and ran one over the back of the other. “Yep, it’s smooth as a baby’s bottom. I’m glad to be rid of the dark spots and thin skin. I was the Moya of my day, and Melvin was . . .” She looked at her husband and shook her head. “Nope, there never was another Melvin.”

  “What are you two talking about? Padera hasn’t changed at all,” Moya said.

  “None of us have ever met Melvin, so we’re probably seeing him the way Padera remembers him,” Roan said in her usual muttering voice, the one she reserved for talking to herself. “Or maybe we see Melvin’s own impression of how he imagines himself. Could be either, really. But it doesn’t explain why Moya still sees Padera as old. To me, she’s young and beautiful.”

  Tressa’s annoyance grew once more. “By Mari’s fat ass, I don’t care who looks like what; you said Malcolm sent a message. What was it, woman!”

  “Oh right. Well, as I was saying, the night I died Malcolm came by. I was feeling poorly, so I wasn’t in a mood for visitors. I went right on with curling up in my covers, and he just stood there staring at me. Odd became strange, and I saw a look of sadness in his eyes. Then he said, ‘The next time you see Brin, tell her, “When trees walk and stones talk.” ’ ”

  “And?” Brin asked.

  “That’s all there was. I thought there should be more, too, but he said that was the whole message.”

  “But that makes no sense. There must be something I need to do when that happens. There has to be more.”

  “Nope. That’s all. At the time, I figured he was drunk. Then he did something really strange.” Padera gave a sheepish glance toward Melvin, and Moya saw her blush. “He kissed me.”

  Melvin opened his mouth to speak.

  She stopped him. “Not that sort of kiss. It was . . .” She hesitated, and her eyes watered. “Anyway, after that, he left, and I went to sleep. The next thing I know, I’m in a river with a stone, heading toward a light, and now I’m here.”

  Moya’s mind was pulled back to the swamp and the discussion she’d had with Muriel.

  Our little Malcolm, who has trouble putting his own boots on, can arrange help for us in Rel?

  If he wants to, yes.

  In Rel, goodbyes were as rare as birthday parties, and Sarah and Delwin were mystified by their daughter’s departure, asking where she thought they were going. Rather than attempt a lengthy and awkward explanation, Moya asked for Padera’s help. The woman, who Moya still saw as an ancient matriarch, assured everyone that those who’d arrived with Moya had some place they needed to be. As hoped, that ended the discussion. While Dahl Rhen’s oldest resident had only just arrived in Phyre, everyone still accepted her wisdom. So it was with hugs and lingering waves that Moya managed to get them moving.

  In accordance with Arion’s directions, they followed the brick road deeper into Rel. Gifford had suggested they ask Arion to join them, but Moya felt the fewer who knew about the key the better. Tressa also pointed out that if Malcolm thought they needed Arion along, he would have said so. The bright-white stones made Moya’s boots clack in a manner she found pleasing. Having trudged through field and swamp, the idea of a pleasant stroll along a smooth road was inviting. Given that nothing could be worse than drowning in the witch’s pool, Moya felt confident in her expectations for a brighter future.

  After passing numerous homes and spotting side streets that revealed even more buildings, they moved beyond the Rhen village. More communities appeared, such as the plaster frame homes of Nadak. Then came the Dureyan mud-brick houses, which stood to either side, looking sorely out of place along the pristine brick.

  Gifford pointed at a man who was splitting a log as they walked by. “Why do you think they are doing that? Chopping wood, I mean? It’s not cold, and I doubt anyone eats, so there is no reason for a cook fire.”

  “To them, it’s a joy,” Brin explained. “Tesh always complained that there was so little wood in Dureya that it was considered a luxury.”

  “Still seems a bit, well, boring,” Tekchin said. He frowned at another man who was stacking the pieces. “I like a good wine, but I wouldn’t want to drink it constantly.”

  Brin looked at Tekchin, as if what he’d said was profound. “My mother complained about the monotony as well. Said it wasn’t supposed to be this way. Apparently, something broke.”

  “Broke? Like what?” Gifford asked.

  “She didn’t say. Maybe she doesn’t know.”

  “Malcolm does,” Tressa proudly announced.

  “Give it a break, will ya, Tressa,” Moya said, her voice weary. “You’ve told us a hundred times about the marvel that is Malcolm. It’s way past old.”

  “No, she’s right,” Roan interjected. “He brought it up. In the smithy the night when Suri made the gilarabrywn, Malcolm said the world was broken.”

  Tekchin snorted. “That’d be quite a feat. In what way is it supposed to be busted? Seemed fine to me.”

  “I don’t think he actually explained that part.” Roan looked to the others. “But I remember he said that he was the one who broke it.”

  Moya laughed. “Malcolm broke the whole world, did he?”

  Roan nodded, straight-faced, but she had also once declared that the world had to be round. With Roan, there was no line dividing imagination from fact.

  “Did he say how?” Tekchin asked with a bemused interest.

  All those with a means of knowing shook their heads.

  Mo
ya spoke up, “And you didn’t press the issue?”

  “There was a lot going on,” Tressa said. “The Fhrey were about to attack, Suri was preparing to kill her best friend, and Raithe was about to die, so—”

  “Raithe!” Moya said, looking out among the many mud-brick houses.

  “You see him?” Brin asked.

  “No. But I just realized he wasn’t at the gate or your parents’ place. Don’t you find that strange?”

  “Maybe he’s not dead, not entirely,” Tressa said. “Maybe he’s still in the dragon—part of him anyway.”

  “Or maybe we just missed him,” Tekchin countered. “Moya’s mother wasn’t there, either. To be honest, I can’t see how people ever find one another. That ringing lets you know someone has died—but you don’t know who, or even what they will look like. Consider how many millions of Rhunes, Fhrey, Dherg, Moklins, Grenmorians, and who knows what else have died over the millennia. Phyre ought to be packed tight. I know I contributed my fair share to the afterlife’s population. The Galantians have slaughtered hundreds and we were only eight warriors. Think of the wars! Moving at all should be nearly impossible, and yet—look at this place—it’s quite spacious, and all the people we knew were nearby.”

  “Hair and nails,” Roan said.

  Everyone looked back to where she and Gifford walked hand in hand, but it was Moya who spoke. “Roan?”

  “Huh?” She’d been watching her feet and stepping carefully to avoid gaps between the bricks.

  Moya smiled at her. “You said that out loud, hon. The thing about hair and nails. What does it mean?”

  “Oh, ah . . . I was just thinking that the reason Rel isn’t crowded is because it’s always growing, getting bigger. When more is needed, it’s created at the source—in the case of Rel, that would be the river.”

  “And everything just moves down? That doesn’t sound right.”

  “Well, I don’t know for sure. Maybe the river pulls back, but it’s like Tekchin said, if the size of Phyre was fixed, it would eventually fill up. So it has to expand. That just makes sense, and it would account for a number of things, wouldn’t it?”

  Years of experience told Moya that Roan always assumed everyone saw what she did, and Moya found it strange that Roan—who usually noticed everything—never picked up on how consistently this assumption was proven wrong. “What kind of things, Roan?”

  “Well, people keep getting born, and they all die, so that means an ever-growing and infinite number of souls. Having new arrivals walk all the way to the end would be silly. It’d be more efficient to add space where they come in. So, the area closest to the gate is filled with people who died recently, while those farther out would have done so further in the past.” She gestured at the mud-brick houses. “Nadak was destroyed after Dureya, and Rhen was attacked after that. As a result, we passed through those areas in reverse order. In a way, we are walking backward through time, at least in regard to the dead.”

  “But my parents were killed before the war, and a lot of people died in the Battle of Grandford,” Brin said. “Why didn’t we have to walk through them to get to my parents’ house?”

  “Maybe you did, at least some of them. But just like in Elan, people move around and settle in communities. If your parents had died a hundred years ago, they might be somewhere in Rel that resembled a forest like the Crescent. They may have gone for a walk, found neighbors there, and moved to be near them. They would be a bit farther away, but not too far when you consider the amount of time that has passed since the world began. They’d still be relatively close to where we came in. Now, if you needed to find Gath of Odeon, I suspect that would have been harder, and you’d be forced to travel farther.”

  “That’s why Brin’s parents and Farmer Wedon have homes near one another even though they died a few years apart,” Gifford concluded.

  “Yes, exactly,” Roan said and smiled.

  They walked on. More communities came and went. Not all were human. Some were Dherg, others Fhrey. Many paths branched off the brick road as if it were the trunk of a tree, then they grew out to either side, creating their own network of roads and trails. Moya noticed some settlements completely disconnected from the brick road, isolated in far-off pastures, forests, and swamps. Although they were too far to see details, Moya concluded that the architecture was different from any they’d seen so far.

  Why live in a swamp? she wondered.

  Moya remembered what Tekchin had said about those who died and curiosity took hold. “What’s a Moklin?” she asked him.

  “Means Blind Ones. You know them as goblins.”

  “You think goblins come here when they die?” she asked, shocked. “You believe they have souls?”

  “How should I know?”

  Moya looked back at the swamp. Maybe they do.

  The trip from the river was always uphill, which Moya thought was odd since everyone knew that Nifrel was below Rel. She concluded that while the entrance might be up high, Nifrel itself could extend a long way down.

  Unless it has nothing to do with location. Perhaps Nifrel is below Rel in other ways.

  As they gained height and looked back, they saw how the lowland nearest the Rel Gate was easily the most populated. Densely clustered roundhouses dominated the landscape, spreading out in a haphazard fashion along the meandering brick road. They spilled out like silt after a flood. Amid that human sediment were little stone-wrought communities of dwarfs, and speckled here and there were a smattering of brick-and-timber homes like the Fhrey dwellings of Alon Rhist.

  Thinking about Roan’s idea that Rel grew over time, she noticed that some sections along the road were more thinly populated, while others were dense.

  Am I looking at famines and good years? Times of war and peace?

  The farther they went, the higher they climbed, and the sparser the population became. Even the buildings grew cruder, more primitive.

  “I don’t understand where all this stuff comes from,” Brin said, pointing to the multitude of homes stretching as far as they could see. “My parents’ home was just like the one I grew up in.”

  “Not exactly,” Gifford said. “It was nicer.”

  Brin nodded. “Yeah, I suppose. But how do people wish things into existence?”

  Roan pulled on her hair and stared at her feet as she walked. “Arion said we exist because we believe we do.” She thought a bit more. “When we died, we left our bodies in Elan, and yet . . .” She poked herself. “I have a body.” She looked up. “Moya has her bow and Rain his pickax. But they aren’t real. They have them because they believe they do—we look the way we do for the same reason—we believe it. Perhaps in a world lacking substance, willpower and faith can shape our surroundings.”

  “And the reason all the houses are nicer than the real thing?” Gifford asked.

  “Pride,” Tressa explained. “No one is going to make their home anything other than perfect if given a choice, right?”

  “Really?” Moya smirked. “Then how come you’re still wearing that miserable shirt? Or am I seeing only what I expect?”

  Tressa looked down at herself and shrugged. “You see what I am.”

  “We see what you believe,” Gifford said.

  “Maybe,” Rain said, “but there are two sides to every wall, aren’t there?”

  Roan nodded. “Every impression is built from our sense of self, but also from the expectations of others.”

  “You lost me, Roan,” Moya said.

  “Oh . . . well, it’s like Padera, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes!” Gifford exclaimed with a big grin. “It is. Roan, you’re a genius. That’s why Moya saw Padera as old, but you saw her as young.”

  Moya glared at Tekchin, who looked as confused as she felt. “Don’t you dare figure this out before me.”

  The Fhrey shook his head. “Not a chance of that. I never was known as the smart Galantian—just the best looking.” He winked at her.

 
“It’s like this,” Gifford explained. “The reason Moya saw Padera as old is because that’s how she remembers her. Moya’s memory is more powerful than Padera’s perception of herself. That makes sense because Moya’s opinions—her willpower is . . . well, she’s . . .”

  “Bullheaded,” Tekchin supplied.

  Gifford swallowed, looking embarrassed. “I would have said strong.”

  “How did you see Padera?” Moya glared at Tekchin.

  “Oh, we’re both pure bull.”

  Roan nodded in agreement, then her eyes went wide, and she let out a little gasp.

  “What?” Moya asked.

  “I just thought of something.”

  “Yes, we know that. The question is, what was it?”

  “Oh . . . I thought of the well in the middle of the brick road. Did you see it?”

  “I think we all did. So?”

  Roan looked at Moya, confused. “It’s in the middle of the road—right on the brick.”

  Moya frowned and shook her head. “Am I the only stupid one here? Is anyone else following her?”

  A series of identical gestures followed, making Moya feel better, and Roan blinked several times, bewildered.

  “Why is it significant that the well is on the brick road?”

  “Because I don’t think this road exists any more than Sarah’s home or your bow.”

  Moya gave a glance around and was happy to see five faces looking back that were still just as muddled as she felt. “Need a bit more, Roan.”

  “Really?”

  “Ah, yeah.”

  “Oh, okay. The well is on top of the brick, it was made after the one who created the paving stones. And I’m going to assume that’s the ruler of this realm.”

  Tekchin nodded. “You’re saying someone altered Drome’s work. So, that someone must have more power than a god. Who in Rhen could do that?”

  “Oh, I know!” Brin had the answer. “It’s everyone. That’s what my mother meant when she said they draw something other than water from the well. She mentioned it was deeper and more vital. It’s the community. It’s all of them.”