Charlinder's Walk

by Alyson Miers

  "The outcome of a spell is one thing. The aftershock is something else entirely. We're talking about commanding the Earth's energy, and that's a force that can be manipulated by mere human beings, but not controlled. My fellow witches, back in my former life, used to discuss how anything you do will come back to you three-fold. Some said it was seven-fold. Some said it was even more than that, and they usually talked about it as if it were a judgment, or act of karma, but I don't think of it like that. It's simply a return of whatever kind of energy you put into your spell-work, and I think it's only one-fold. The thing is that...once is more than enough."

  She didn't drop eye contact with Charlinder, and the way those glowing, unfathomable eyes carried her face left him unwilling to voice and unaccountably ashamed of the question that buzzed needlessly in his head.

  "The answer I received for the energy I put into creating the Plague is still coming back to me to this day. I thought I'd be among the first to die, but it didn’t work out like that. Even when I tried to die by my own hand, the goddess had other plans for me. The result of my spell-work is that I get to stay here, and watch the consequences of my actions unfold."

  "How long do you think that’ll take?" he asked.

  "I have no idea how much longer it’ll be. She won’t have me live forever; everything has to die eventually, or else life has no balance, but I know now, I don’t get to decide when I’ll die. Only Mother Earth can make that decision." Charlinder had no answer to that. She continued. "Whenever that time comes, I hope She makes it quick. She owes me that much compassion, at least."

  Gentiola eventually tired of letting him look back into her perfect, sad eyes and went back to her spinning.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Herbs

  On his last full day of staying at her house, Charlinder learned several things from Gentiola. One was that she could use her globe to watch survivors in other parts of the world. She had spent a lot of hours doing so after the Plague was finished, and she showed Charlinder examples of a few of the people whose lives she'd watched decades before, when they were still alive. She had eventually given up this habit, realizing there was nothing to be gained from spying on people whose lives she had wrecked. She did, however, show a snapshot from this old habit to Charlinder, though what she'd expected him to gain from it was not immediately apparent.

  Perhaps that was merely the way she’d chosen to demonstrate the globe’s powers, because she also offered to show him how Paleola was doing at the present time.

  "I could show you your village, if you like," she offered. "Would you like to see them?"

  "Could I talk to them? Would they be able to hear me?"

  "Well, no," she answered. "You could see them, but they wouldn’t have any sense of you."

  "Isn’t this the way that you told the survivors it was safe to come outside?"

  "Yes, but, even with my powers, they didn’t really hear words so much as get a vague impression. I could show you your friends and your uncle, though. Wouldn’t you like to see how they’re doing?"

  "I’m sure they’re doing fine," he said. "But if it’s just one way, then I’d rather not."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah. If I could see them, but not talk to them, that would be torture." If they weren’t doing fine, then it would be miserable to see them but not be able to help. "Thanks for the offer, though."

  They moved back upstairs, where Gentiola returned to her spinning wheel and had Charlinder bring her rabbits into the room for combing.

  "What exactly is that fiber you're using?" he asked randomly.

  "This is hemp," she answered. "I use it to make durable things. And if you don't mind if I change the subject," she continued, "have you thought about what you'll do once you return home?"

  "Tell my story, first. There'll be a bunch of people who want to hear it, and I can't tell it all in one day. After that, I’ll teach school again. Judith might want to keep the job, but I think I can argue for splitting the class in halves."

  "Do you think that would be a satisfying life after what you've done?"

  "It’s about the most satisfying life I could have, to be honest."

  "Is that all you think you can do? Just go home and be a village teacher in the one-room schoolhouse?"

  "Is there anything wrong with that?"

  "There's nothing the least bit wrong with educating children," she replied, "but don't you see what you can do? I knew you were rare when I found out how far you'd come, but, Charlinder, you are not just clever and determined. You are literate. With the world being the way it now is, do you know how much potential that gives you, for so much more than your village?"

  "How much potential do you think?"

  "I won't tell you what to do, but you are so much bigger than anything your village should contain on its own. You could teach more than your home community's children, and you could teach them about more than their history. Think about that, before you accept 'business as usual' as your future. Isn't that what you railed against to me earlier? People who have no greater ambition in life than to leave the same routine to the next generation? I call that 'the enforcement of tradition.' Do you know what you're up against, there? I know your type, and I know their tactics. You may think your side will win out because you care about what’s true, but that's not how it works."

  "Am I at war with the Tradition Enforcement Squad, now?"

  "If you really want to finish what Eileen Woodlawn started, then, yes, you are. You know perfectly well that your people are trying to improve their way of life, and that one religion should not dominate a society. The importance of tradition has everything to do with both of those things. You may think they'll play by the same rules as you do, but in that case, you are mistaken. You cannot assume your adversaries will make the same distinction between what is true and what comes out on top. They will promulgate their morality with aggressive proselytizing and enforce it with draconian consequences. Do you think I haven't seen it happen before? They won't be nearly so concerned as you, either, about healthy rates of population growth or the rights of women to own their lives. You know what all that means, don't you?"

  "Yeah. They'll end up with more followers, if not by conversion, then by birthrate."

  "So what kind of advantage will you have? While tradition does what it takes to win, what are forward-thinking people like you doing?"

  "Being smug and self-satisfied," he responded. "Why, Gentiola? What could you do to advance the cause of reality-based society?"

  "Can you imagine what would happen if people found out how I know what I know?"

  This much stopped him in his tracks. He didn't want to imagine that.

  "Since I can’t die, I have to live somewhere, so it might as well be here," she continued, "but the less of my presence I inflict on anyone, the better off they’ll be."

  Nevertheless, something in her tone about the 'enforcement of tradition' brought his mind back to what she'd shown him on her globe.

  "You know...maybe I didn't ask quite clearly enough, but, you didn't really answer my question, about what those survivors kept arguing about."

  "No, I suppose I didn't get that far," she admitted. "Well, the couple I showed you weren't unique, but they were especially entertaining. Something that came up a lot was about the role of women in society. What could they do, what should they do, how should they deal with the men in their lives, and how should the men deal with them? It was simple enough to keep that in the background before the Plague, but once they had to live off the land...there were some questions that had to be answered. It wasn't just a philosophical discussion, it was about their lives. The woman I showed you, and several of her new neighbors, were used to having a lot more liberty than most of the other survivors thought was appropriate, and it was difficult to avoid having that divide come up when they were trying to rebuild from scratch."

  "But they stayed together, didn't they?"

  "Yes, they stayed together. There are
the people you can live with, and the people you can't live without. Their differences were inescapable, but not insurmountable."

  "And did the 'enforcement of tradition' often come up in their sparring?" asked Charlinder.

  "Of course," Gentiola replied. "What else is the prevailing argument for treating women like second-class citizens? What was the reasoning for making women into family servants, or invalids, or controlled substances?" she asked rhetorically. Charlinder couldn't help but betray confusion at her wording. "And you think I'm talking nonsense, but if you could have seen the way some cultures insisted on gender segregation, you would know what I mean by controlled substances. Maybe you did see it in your travels."

  "Some people also gave scientific reasoning for gender roles," he pointed out.

  "And do you think there's scientific reasoning for forcing girls into marriage when they're ten years old? Or younger?" she challenged.

  That was admittedly not something he expected. While he was speechless, she went on, "Or, how about insisting that it's tradition to keep women locked in their houses at all times, unless they have an escort outside? Can you imagine what that does to a society, if half its population is under house arrest?"

  "I didn't say I agreed with any of those ideas," he recovered, "I just thought I'd play a little Devil's Advocate."

  "And when the 'science' turned out to be nonsense, what did they fall back on? Who needs mercy, or fairness, or individuality, or even practicality, when you've got Tradition?"

  "And do you think everything called tradition is sexist?"

  "I suppose the idea of tradition can also be used to justify racism," she admitted, "but the sexist ones tend to be older, so I know more about them. I'm not railing against the traditions that don't hurt anyone, but my goodness, there is no end to the ways that people are limited by societies hiding behind the safety of routine. It may help maintain stability, but tradition should never be used as a substitute for thinking for oneself. It is a support system for life--" she went on until Charlinder cut her off.

  "Not the other way around," he finished. "Okay, so, what are you proposing I do about that?"

  "I don't really know," she confessed, "except that being smug and self-satisfied is nowhere near enough. Simply having the best argument won't be enough to challenge tradition, but your access to the written word may help. It's an uphill battle, but if you don't see in yourself the power to be a revolutionary, you may still be a spark."

  Later that afternoon, Gentiola came to him where he was waiting in the garden, with something in her hand.

  "It's finished," she announced. She lifted her palm and revealed a small, stuffed pouch and neck-cord stitched out of the hemp thread she'd been spinning. The pouch was unremarkable except for the dozens of tiny red glass beads arranged in the stitches, and there was something like dried leaves inside. Removing the contents, she said, "I know how you feel about depending on hospitality from strangers, so this will make it easier."

  In her hand was a tiny muslin sack filled with dried herbs and seeds. "When you want to stay at a village, ask your hosts to smell the herbs," she instructed. "It will show them that their generosity will be rewarded. I will know who and where they are, and I will make sure they have a sound harvest and safe winter, or whatever concerns them at the time."

  Charlinder stared at the bag as though it were a sacred relic. "We're talking about months of travel here."

  "Haven't you seen yet? I have a lot of free time on my hands," she pointed out, at which he laughed. "And I'll have even more when you're gone."

  "You're really going all out for me, aren't you?" he said. "So...thank you," and he reached out for the object.

  "Wait," she reacted, her hand closing over the herbs and pouch. "I need to give it to you specially," she explained.

  After placing the bag back in the pouch, Gentiola twisted the cord around her wrists so the pouch hovered between her forearms. She lifted her hands to Charlinder's head, where she pressed her palms to his temples and closed her eyes. She slowly drew her hands down, allowing the cord to relax around his neck. Though she didn't make a sound, Charlinder got the same sensation from the ritual as when she'd erased the language barrier between them. Her hands slid over his neck, his shoulders, and his chest, finally leaving the hemp pouch to rest in front of his shirt.

  He waited for her to open her eyes and speak first.

  "It's yours now," she said after a pause. "I've charmed both the pouch and herbs so no one else can touch them without your invitation. Even I can't take them from you now."

  "This is really amazing," said Charlinder. "I'd say 'thank you,' but I'm not sure that's enough."

  "You're welcome," Gentiola responded. "I'll stock you up on food tonight, and then I suppose you'll want to leave in the morning."

  "Yes, I do."

  She loaded him up with food for his journey that night. She stuffed his pack with grain, dried fruits and vegetables, cheese and nuts from her pantry. Then they sat in front of the fire and held each other until they couldn't stay awake anymore.

  Part 5: Return

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Calais and Dover

  Charlinder left the curtains wide open on the bedroom window that night. When the sun rose, the first waves of light penetrated the room and roused him from sleep. He didn't bother taking his time this morning; he dressed, took his luggage, and helped himself to a quick breakfast before he went to her room.

  It was a warmer season in her room than in the kitchen, and Charlinder couldn't get over how perfect she looked, bare-shouldered, her arms spread out, her head lain to one side, her hair rippling over the pillow and sheets. He didn't make a sound as he knelt next to her bed and watched her sleep. She took seconds to stir.

  "I didn’t expect you," she said through a yawn, "to wake me up before you left."

  "I had to come in and say thank you," he said. "Thank you for all you’ve done for me, thank you for letting me rest at your house, and thank you for telling me your story."

  "You are very welcome, darling," she said. "Thank you for listening."

  "I wish I could stay longer and listen to you more," he said. "But I do have a home to get back to."

  "I have to say goodbye to you now," she murmured. "It's not fair that I get so little time with you."

  "It's not fair to me, either," said Charlinder. "So I won't think of it as goodbye so much as...I'm glad I met you." He slid his hands under her back and kissed her, deeply, hungrily, savoring every movement of her lips under his mouth and her hands around his head and neck. She broke contact first; he buried his nose into the nape of her neck and breathed in her scent for the last time. He pulled away and looked her in the face, knowing that he would never again peer into those exquisite eyes.

  "Go home, Char," she whispered. "Tell your friends what I did."

  "I'll never forget you," he said.

  "I know," she replied in a voice of nothing but sadness.

  The luggage felt unaccountably heavy on his back as he left through the front door. The chickens went on pecking in the dirt as usual. The rabbits glanced at him before going back to nibbling on their greens. The garden was as beautiful a landscape as he'd seen on his journey; the scent of orange blossoms reproached him.

  The following days were at once easier than most of his trip and the most difficult of all. The closest comparison he could make was with the very beginning of the journey. This time he was walking in dizzyingly hot rather than numbingly cold weather, he was well-practiced in the crafts of cooking on the go and sleeping outdoors, he was accustomed to being away from the people he loved, and his legs and back were accordingly hardened after two and a half years of walking for sixteen to eighteen hours a day with his entire life pressing on his shoulders. However, he no longer had an animal by his side for company, he had just given up the softest and warmest bed of his life, he'd been kept in such otherworldly comfort during his stay with Gentiola that his isolation with the elements felt
like a punishment, and he could still hear her voice in his head, telling him what he'd always longed to know.

  He took a jagged, roughly northwestern route through Italy towards the western Alps. At first he considered taking a slightly longer though gentler trip through the coast into France to circumvent the mountains, but cutting himself some slack so early in the game would do him no favors. He was looking at a lot of rough terrain ahead, and his time for taking it easy was spent.

  Even while his dreams kept bringing him maddeningly back to Gentiola's house and his body rebelled at the renewed onslaught of the untamed outdoors, he approached the angular silhouette of the Alps with an unfamiliar sense of peace. He could say, finally, that his journey was mostly done, he knew how he would get home, and that he'd gotten what he'd come for without getting himself killed, maimed or unduly delayed. He wouldn't consider it a done deal until he made it out of Greenland with all his limbs intact, but overall the progress he'd made in his journey was not lost on him.