Seed- The Gene Awakens

by Jane Baskin

  “Thoughts of love.”

  A laugh. “Good luck with that. Most of the women are spoken for by now. You should’ve moved faster.”

  Nayan, laughing as well. “I should have, shouldn’t I?”

  The two young men, working together to clear the yard. Later, practicing hard enough to work up a sweat despite the cold. Entering the main hall, still breathing hard.

  Che: “Well, I guess exercise is the next best thing.”

  “A distant second.”

  Grins, back slaps. Getting themselves some hot gell tea. Drinking it slowly, in hopes it might make them sleepy enough to go back to bed. Might have worked, but for the sight of red hair at the serving table.

  Che, motioning with his head. Nayan, looking up. Che: She’s allowed to roam free now, yes?

  A shrug. Where’s she going to go, this time of year?

  Point.

  Watched her make herself some tea. Then turn.

  Jumped, when she saw Nayan. Spilled her tea. A soft curse, under her breath. Found a rag, began to clean up the spill.

  Che: You have a singular effect on women.

  How do you know it wasn’t your ugly face that startled her? Put his tea down. I have to ask her something. Rose to his feet.

  Careful. She may eat you.

  Hmmn.

  Nayan, crossing to the serving table. Paused. Picked up another rag, helped her clean up the spilled tea.

  Irritated, her. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  The girl, stepping back. Nayan, finishing the cleaning. Then pouring her a new cup of tea; one for himself. Looking directly at her. “I need to ask you something.”

  “Why?”

  “I just do. Will you sit with me, just a moment?”

  Something between a snarl and a sigh coming out of the girl. But following him to a table. The two, sitting in silence for a few minutes, sipping tea.

  “I thought you had to ask me something.”

  “Yes. Last week, when everyone was gathered here, and the refugees and riders were talking about the situation in the South – in your homeland … I saw you at the back of the hall.”

  “I was there.”

  “I can’t be sure, you were far away. But it looked like – like you were weeping.” Wanted to say I knew you were but thought better of it.

  Silence. An angry stare. Then: “What if I had been?”

  “I’m curious. Why?”

  More angry stares. “Not all those from the South are the same.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You holier-than-thou Northerners portray us all as savages. As ruthless overlords who like nothing better than torturing and mutilating our peasants.”

  “Uh … aren’t you?”

  Threw her tea in his face. Only turning his head quickly saved Nayan a painful burn. Rose quickly… only to find her wrist held fast by Nayan. Stared for a moment; had not seen him move. But, there. Nayan, holding on forcefully; she could not get away. Glared at him. Kept trying to pull out of his grip. He: careful not to hurt her, but meeting her effort with superior strength. A silent contest of wills, for several moments.

  “Please, sit back down. I want to talk to you.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “I understand. But … please.”

  With irritation, she sat. Silent. Nayan released her wrist. Sat, just looking at her. “Shall I get you another cup of tea?” No answer. Nayan, rising. Knew – somehow – she would not run. Poured her another cup of tea. Brought it back.

  More silence. Finally: “If I offended you, I apologize. But if I’m wrong, help me understand. All we know of the South is the lords’ – um – heavy-handed – tactics. Raiding here, trying to take the gell by force. Keeping ordinary people as prisoners, brutalizing or killing them when they protest or try to leave. We’ve heard that southern lords put peoples’ corpses on pikes along the roads. That’s pretty savage, you have to admit. But if that’s not true … then tell me.”

  “It’s … true.” Almost a whisper.

  “So … are you not ruthless overlords?”

  “Not every one of us.”

  “Who’s different?”

  “I am.” Looked away.

  A silence. Nayan, knowing at once: a chest of miseries, suddenly opened. “You – you don’t agree with the lords’ tactics? Your … father’s tactics?”

  “No.”

  “That must cause some difficulties between you and your father.”

  “It does.”

  “But I heard you were his favorite.”

  “Sometimes, people love those who disagree with them … the best.”

  “Hmmn.” Ran his hand over his chin.

  A fairly long silence, this time. The girl, not looking at him.

  “Then what do you think of this current revolt?”

  “It’s horrible.”

  “What would you do, if you were leader of your clan?”

  Vicious silence. Then: “I’d do what you people have done here. I’d free my peasants and give them land. Their land. But just because I don’t agree with my relatives doesn’t mean I don’t love my home.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you?” The girl, rising then. Headed back to her rooms.

  This exchange, watched by Che. Also watched by Dar-agan and Ilia-te, passing along the balcony over the great hall. Thoughtful, them.

  Dar-agan: “Do you think there’s any chance?”

  “Mmn. Possibly.”

  “Your idea – it’s another one of your crazy schemes. One of the craziest yet. I have to commend you.”

  “When winter’s over, we’ll have to return her. We’ll have no choice. Telling her father she was rescued from the explosion, injured, and brought here to heal is our only hope of escaping his wrath. Of avoiding a nasty collision with a powerful man.”

  “We can be pretty nasty ourselves.”

  “Of course. But there’s always more of them. And … why bother? If she’s healthy and strong, and we can say she fell in love with our son while recuperating, and therefore we can propose a match with him – and through that, easy access to the gell – then we have a more palatable arrangement.”

  “You think Lord Vel will agree to this.”

  “I’m almost certain. I’ve heard … the girl may be his favorite, but she’s … troublesome.”

  “I can see that for myself. All the gods help poor Nayan.”

  Now the girl, wandering the castle more freely. Residents, getting used to seeing her. No longer staring. She, occasionally nodding to someone who nodded to her. One young woman claimed to have had a conversation with her over tea.

  Getting a winter cloak from one of the maids. Walking outside. Visiting the stables. Once, finding Nayan there. Asking him bluntly: “Can I get a gantha?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Nayan, a slow smile. “If I give you a gantha, you could try to get home. Which is insane in winter, but you might just be that crazy.”

  Slap him? Spit at him?

  Let it go?

  “I’d like to ride in the wood. Again.”

  “I thought you said it didn’t interest you.”

  “That was before I met the lion.”

  Nayan, a pause. She really was crazy. Remembering how she came at him from a crouch, her back against a wall, her brow slick with fever. Wondering …

  “Okay then. Let’s go. But just to the edge and back. This cold’s hard on the ganthas, even with their winter fur.” Picked out a red coated gantha, a tall beast who could get through the snow with ease. A little difficult, this one … but perhaps they’d be well suited. And if she fell off … well, the snow would make a soft landing. Brought the animal to her. Set the saddle and bridle down on the hay covered floor. Did not offer to help get the animal ready for her.

  Took his own gantha from his stall. A huge, restless stallion; very fast. Called him Oren. In a mostly forgotten n
orthern dialect, the word for “flight.” A son of his mother’s irritable beast. Took his time saddling the animal. When he turned, she: waiting for him. Her gantha: perfectly outfitted.

  Surprise?

  Together, led the ganthas out of the stables. Mounted, walked them over a bridge to the meadow. At least a foot of snow on the ground, now. Nayan, not too surprised when the girl kicked her gelding into a fast canter as soon as they hit open ground.

  Goaded his stallion forward in chase. What an idiot. If that animal breaks a leg in the snow, I really will kill her.

  Nayan’s gantha: fast, powerful. Caught up to the red easily. Nayan, shouting at her: “Slow down! That animal’s not used to deep snow! And deep breathing this cold air – ”

  The girl, ignoring him. Nayan, catching her again. Steering his gantha in front of hers. Okay. All stop. A spray of snow, squeals from both ganthas.

  Nayan, reaching for her reins. Cursing. Caught the reins, which she surrendered easily. Looked up at her. She: laughing.

  “You think this is funny?”

  “I think this is fun.”

  “And would it still be fun, if your animal slipped, broke a leg, and landed on top of you? Or his lungs burst from the cold?”

  She, now laughing harder.

  “Would it!?” Nayan, angry now. Took great care of his ganthas. Loved them, respected them. Had no use for careless riders.

  “Oh, calm down. I was going to stop.”

  “When?”

  “Right about when you stopped me.”

  As at tea, standoff. Nayan, looking away. That original fantasy of strangling her with her own hair, returning forcefully. Oh! Gods, what a nuisance. Nayan, releasing a heavy breath. Turned back to her. Hesitated, then threw the reins back at her. “No more racing.”

  “Understood.” No longer laughing, but still smiling. The sea green eyes, sparkling, alive.

  Nayan, rubbing his chin with a gloved hand. Noticing the eyes. Had never seen them look so lively. Not even when she charged him, mad for the kill.

  I’m feeling better. Of course my eyes are clear.

  What? Shook his head. Not possible! Forget forget forget

  Struggled to form the words: “Okay. Do you still want to head into the wood?”

  “Yes.”

  “At a walk.”

  “Yes.”

  Turned the animals toward the forest edge. Headed over at a walk.

  This time the fearsome Cha-Ning: uneventful. The girl, disappointed. As promised, a short ride, this time.

  On the way back: “Where do you suppose the lions are?

  “Probably sleeping. As we should be.”

  “What?”

  Suddenly fumbling for words. “I mean at this time of year … there’s not a lot to do but sleep. Everyone takes naps. Only fools go riding.”

  “I guess we’re fools, then.”

  “This was your idea.”

  “What were you doing in the stables, then?”

  “Checking on the ganthas. Making sure their water wasn’t frozen. Their blankets were secure. Making sure they had food. They need extra grain in winter.”

  “Don’t you have stable hands for that?”

  Nayan, slow to answer. What a lazy snob. I wonder if she’s done a day’s work in her life. A fat-assed aristocrat.

  A giggle. My ass is not fat.

  All gods! What’s happening? Looked over at her almost frantically. Only to find her looking away.

  “Did you just – ?”

  Ignored him. “I know you northerners share the work. Even lords shovel shit in the stables.”

  Had a sudden impulse to slap her. Tamped it down. “Yes, we shovel shit when necessary. Something wrong with that?”

  She: now laughing again. A musical trill, like his mother’s enchanting laugh. Made Nayan mad. Felt she had no right to that laugh.

  “No, there’s nothing wrong with it. It’s just … different from what I’m used to. Although, as you can see … I usually take care of my own mount.”

  Nayan, suddenly pulling his gantha up. Turning to her. “Well, it’s how things are done around here. And whenever you use one of our ganthas, you’ll cool him down and feed him and shovel his shit as necessary. You’ll hang up your own gear. No one will wait upon you.”

  Expected to hear her protest. But … “Of course.”

  And kept her word. Did not leave the stable until the animal had been cooled and dried, blanketed and fed. Given fresh water. And the several piles of manure, shoveled out of its stall.

  7.She Can Dance; Can You?

  Did you hear?

  I heard.

  But she’s from the South.

  Others are working on the lineage. She may have northern bloodlines. But you remember, some southerners have the ability.

  The seeds were spread more widely than we originally thought.

  Told you so. (Smile)

  No need to be arrogant. (Smile)

  Will the reveal come soon?

  Come now, are you really that bored? Perhaps this wasn’t the right assignment for you.

  Nonsense. And I’m not bored; I’m just impatient. The talent is so strong!

  He’s a time jumper, for sure.

  You may just be right.

  Nayan, tossing in his sleep. Seeing – what? – in his dreams. In his mind’s eye. A shadow at times, a blinding light at other times. Waking in a sweat before dawn. Knowing … everything was about to change.

  A half-dead family struggling into Cha-Ning Province from the South. Collapsing in the snow not a mile from the castle. Huddling under their wagon against the advancing evening cold. Their skinny gantha: frozen to death in the traces.

  Found by riders on their patrols. Taken back to the castle at a gallop. Their wagon with its measly possessions, brought back later.

  In the great hall, warmed by gell tea, hot meat broth and heavy blankets. Tended by doctors. Half-starved, them. Unable to eat solid food, yet. Rooms found for them. A man, his wife and grown daughter. Maids stoking a big fire, warming beds, bringing warm clothes. The refugees, falling into beds, exhausted, shivering.

  As the last maid left, the husband: grabbing her hand. “Don’t let us sleep too long. We have news.”

  The next day: a day of celebration. Winter party; one of several traditionally held to dispel winter doldrums (in case anyone had them). Hardly a day to interview refugees from the war torn South.

  But. Had to be done. The husband’s urgency: had to be addressed. So, early: Dar-Agan and the headwoman for the People of Cha-Ning, talking to the man who had arrived the evening before.

  He: intense. “We escaped a terrible battle. I fought – but we were being overrun. I knew what that meant for my family. I had already lost my son. I couldn’t bear losing – knowing what would happen to my wife and daughter. So we headed north. To be honest, we had planned our flight for some time. The wagon was always loaded and waiting. Me – I’m too old to be of much use in a fight, now. I gave them my son. I could give no more. I had to think of my wife and daughter.”

  Dar-agan: “Of course you did. You did the right thing.”

  The man, looking sad. “I hope so. I feel like a traitor … but. I couldn’t defend my remaining loved ones. And I couldn’t bear to see what would happen to them.”

  Silence, for a few minutes. Sighs. Kitchen staff coming and going, in preparation for evening festivities. Sensing the sorrow around the table near the tea setup. Checking only to see if the man needed more tea or breakfast rolls, the ones with meats and cheeses and hearty grains that were guaranteed to get the gut working at the start of a day.

  Finally Dar-agan: “What’s your name?”

  “Brenchan. Brenchan li-Vel.”

  “Brenchan … li-Vel. What does ‘li-Vel’ mean? Are you a member of Lord Vel’s household?”

  A sad smile on Brenchan’s face, then. Shook his head. “Not in the way you think. The word ‘li’ means ‘of,’ as you know. But in the South, it’s a term reserved o
nly for peasants. It indicates which lord you belong to.”

  “Belong to?”

  “Which one owns me, and my family.”

  “Hmmn.”

  “Look, what I have to tell you is, the peasants may be winning this war. I know it sounds unbelievable, but … there’s a new leader, a powerful man. He’s tall as a giant and skinny as a stair rail. He led his army of rebels to a victory against Lord Darleigh. I was there; I saw it. The man charged Lord Darleigh and knocked him off his gantha. Then he jumped on the animal’s back and single-handedly stormed the bombing platform before they could finish setting it up. We helped him finish the setup, then turned the bombs on the lords. We won the battle. Can you imagine? We, a bunch of untrained peasants, no better than animals … we won a battle against a group of lords. Trained, warrior lords.”

  “Hmmn.” Dar-agan, rubbing his hand over his bearded chin. A gesture common to him and his eldest son, whenever they needed to think. Then: “What’s the name of this skinny new leader?”

  “Gwildan. I don’t know who he belongs to – or belonged to – we call him Gwildan.”

  “Hmmn.”

  The headwoman, Scilla-ye, conferring quietly with Dar-agan. Brenchan, barely listening, devouring a meat roll. Clear: he hadn’t eaten in a while.

  Dar-agan: “Well, we thank you for the news. And be comforted, you and your family are welcome here. We’ll find permanent lodgings for you soon. But you must make me a promise.”

  Brenchan, looking up quickly, his mouth still full of food. Gulped it down. “Of course, Lord. Anything you ask.”

  “Please don’t refer to yourself as no better than an animal, ever again.”

  That afternoon, the lords’ family conferring up in their rooms. Nayan, called off the practice yard. Noar, rousted from bed with a pretty girl with long blond braids. Their parents, sitting by their fireplace with its giant iron box, that kept the rooms like summer in winter, despite the fact that the central heating pipes had not yet reached theier rooms. Mother, getting warm ale from their kitchen.

  Nayan and Noar, exchanging glances. Ale instead of tea? Most likely a serious conversation, about to take place.

  Ilia-te began. “You’ve probably heard, by now. We have a new family, come from the South. With news of a great peasant victory over several lords’ armies. We understand Darleigh himself was dumped in the dirt.”