by Ila Mercer
‘Is that land ahead?’ The golden man asked, peering at the horizon.
Ari nodded as he kept up his strokes. Though he had been rowing for some time, he did not think they were getting any closer. In fact, it appeared as though the smudge had shrunk.
The golden man fixed his eyes on the horizon. ‘Could be Pendle’s Peninsular,’ he mused. ‘If the storm pushed us East, that would be the most likely land mass. Unless… It could be Striker’s Island too.’ And then the golden man surveyed the whole of the sea. ‘We were the only survivors?’ he asked, turning back to face Ari.
Ari shrugged.
The golden man dropped his gaze. ‘I’m sorry.’
Ari’s lips tightened, and a surge of anger travelled through his body. He pulled the oar so hard that it leapt from the water. ‘Why be sorry now?’
The golden man winced at the anger in Ari’s words. ‘I have been sorry for weeks,’ he said. ‘I had no idea before. I did not realise… And now they are all gone.’
The golden man’s words only inflamed Ari’s anger. ‘What did you imagine then?’ he asked. ‘That we begged for the chance to dig your filthy mines? Did you think they housed us in ships with clean beds of straw, the purest spring waters? Three fine meals a day? Well?’ He threw down the oar. ‘And why is it, that I am still rescuing you? I am finished. Even when we get to shore you will have me in shackles again. So, what’s the point?’
The golden man’s throat bobbed as he swallowed and in his eyes there was an expression of hurt. ‘I owe you my life and because of that I will make you a promise. I will find a way to procure your freedom and some day, though I don’t know how, I will do everything in my power to stop the trade. On this you have my word.’
‘Your father charged you to find out why your yields were lean. He means to make a profit from my people’s misery. Do you think that he will be easily persuaded to give up this business for the sake of your conscience?’
‘He has never sailed, he can’t know. He is not a bad man and I will talk to him. You’ll see.’
Ari sniffed and handed the oar to the golden man. Though the golden man believed, Ari did not. He knew how it would work. He could feel the shackles tightening already.
*
Sometime during the afternoon, they exchanged names. It was a small peace offering on Ari’s behalf. If they were to survive, they could not be enemies, he reasoned.
The golden man’s name was Lars. Funny, Ari thought, for in his native tongue the word meant two things. The first meaning was soft, as in gentle, and it fit the golden man’s character well, but the other meaning was to yield under pressure. Usually the word was used to describe something that had both qualities.
During the afternoon they took turns with the oar. While it gave Ari’s shoulder some rest, he cursed his lack of foresight. Why had he not retrieved two planks instead of one? Then they could have made faster progress. By late afternoon, the smudge on the horizon seemed to edge closer. Whether it was the action of the current, or their efforts, Ari could not tell but he was pleased they were getting closer.
After the sky became dark, the temperature dropped. Lars began to shake with cold and Ari could feel his own reactions begin to slow. Without food or water to sustain them during the day, they had little reserves left to make their own heat and they were still a long way from land. Ari was beginning to wonder whether they would make it. In an attempt to distract Lars from his discomfort, Ari pointed out the constellations above them.
‘This one,’ he said pointing to a cluster of five, ‘we call the dancers. And that one,’ he pointed to the brightest star in the sky, ‘we call the dogstar.’
‘Why the dogstar?’ Lars asked.
‘Like a herder. It seems to hold the others in place. Without it, my people say the other stars would be lost, and would wander away to other places in the sky. I don’t believe that though.’
‘Why not,’ Lars asked, through chattering teeth.
‘I think they are fixed. I don’t think they could move away. They are like holes in a black cloth. With the light shining through from the other side.’
‘Dracodian folk don’t think about stars that much. We are always looking to the ground, at our feet, searching for things we can trade or sell,’ he admitted.
‘Our eyes are always on the heavens,’ Ari said. He was remembering his people now. How they sat around the village fire at night, sharing stories, telling jokes, enjoying the companionship of each other and the memory made his body ache with sadness.
‘Is that because of –’
‘The moon? Yes. We are tuned to the rhythms of the sky in the same way that plants are tuned to the seasons of the land. It will rise soon, to our left.’
‘And what then?’
Ari could not see Lars’s face now that it was dark, but he heard the edge of panic in his voice. ‘Are you afraid I will eat you up?’ he teased.
‘Well, will you?’ Lars asked, with a forced laugh.
‘I doubt you would taste that good.’
‘That’s a relief.’ Lars was silent for a little while and then he asked. ‘What am I to expect? I would rather know in advance.’
‘Like a swarm of light, as though the body is breaking down and then we Change. For most of my kind, we only ever Change to our token animal. There are a few who can become whatever they choose but this is rare.’
‘And you?’
‘My token is the lion.’
Lars laughed, clearly rattled by Ari’s admission. ‘Me and a lion on a piece of wreckage in the middle of the sea.’
‘The wreck will hold, and you will welcome my hide when the night grows colder.’
Later, when a nearly full moon rose on a cloudless sky, Lars witnessed the changing of his Beast companion. Though he was terrified, he did not jump from their craft into the sea. Instead he held fast, fingers digging into the cracks of their raft, lest they be tipped into the sea. But Ari’s change barely rocked their raft and the extra weight only pressed them into the sea by a few whiskers.
It was nothing like Ari had depicted. His words had been a pale description of what actually occurred. Though Lars was a sensitive man, aware of the budding of the trees in autumn, unafraid to shed a tear with the birth of his son, moved by the melodic strains of a finely played lute, he was unprepared for the powerful feelings that swept through him that night. And for a long while, after he lay against the shaggy, thrumming rib cage of his companion, one thought cycled through his mind. That night, he had witnessed a divine wonder. For surely nothing that terrible and that beautiful could have come into being without the presence of a greater force.
*
The following day, they woke to shouting.
Ari stretched his tight limbs, and shook Lars awake. ‘Wake up.’
There, less than three boat lengths away, a small sailing vessel with five men rocked on the waves.
Before long, Ari and Lars had scrambled onto the fishing vessel, and sat wedged between bags filled with the silver scaled fish. Lars gave the fishermen a potted version of what had happened, and though he did not tell them that Ari was a slave, they kept glancing at him with quiet suspicion.
By mid-morning both men stood on dry land. They soon learned they had landed on the southern most tip of Dracodia. One of the fishermen took Ari and Lars home, and both were given a warm welcome by their hostess. She found fresh though ill-fitting garments for them. Lars’s tunic hung from his shoulders like a wool sack, while Ari’s tunic stretched taut across his back and the pants ended above his ankles. Ari could not even fit into the boots, he’d been given but he was secretly pleased for the soles of his feet were harder than a dried out gourd and his people rarely bothered to cover their feet. He wrapped a kerchief around his wrist to hide his branding, even though Lars assured him the village folk had no sense of its meaning. After they were freshly clothed, and had eaten a pot of porridge each, Lars asked their hostess to bring them the razor strop and a pair of scissors.
> ‘You first,’ Lars told Ari when they were settled privately beneath an old tree in their hostess’s yard.
Ari grimaced. ‘So that I may look like a child?’
‘No. So that you look like a Dracodian.’
Ari grumbled and scowled as Lars lent his talents to the task of scraping away the excess hair. ‘And how often must I repeat this? Once every moon cycle?’ Ari asked.
Lars laughed. ‘Every day, if you wish to pass as a true Dracodian.’
Ari shook his head. ‘I don’t understand such madness.’
Lars nodded in agreement. ‘You are right. I think I will allow mine to grow.’
‘What? Now that you have stolen my manhood you plan to grow yours?’
‘Sh,’ Lars said with a quiet chuckle. ‘In Dracodia, we attach that meaning to something else altogether.’
When the locals learned that Lars was a Senna, they insisted he take two of their best donkeys to travel to the nearest city. Lars thanked the villagers and promised that he would send them a gift of gratitude on his safe return home. By mid afternoon, they were riding down a dusty highway with several flasks of water, a bag full of dried fish, apples, nuts and a wheel of cheese.
Ari had never ridden a donkey or a horse before and he could not shake his concern for the poor animal. Was his weight too heavy? Wouldn’t the donkey tire soon? After several miles, he alighted from his steed.
‘What are you doing?’ Lars asked.
‘I think I will walk for a while.’
‘But it’s going to take us days to get home as it is.’
‘I prefer to walk,’ Ari said, with a stubborn set to his mouth.
Lars shook his head in disbelief. ‘At the rate you’re walking it will take us till midwinter to reach my home. Get back on the donkey.’
‘I will when the donkey has had a rest.’
‘If you really want to give the donkey a rest, perhaps you should carry her on your back,’ Lars retorted.
Ari did not deign to reply. He could see the relief in the donkey’s eyes. What she really wanted was to stop by the verge and chew the sweet young shoots that grew there. It would never have occurred to his people to ride an animal. Such an idea would have been met with ridicule. His people would think these Dracodians strange for the way they commandeered animals for their pleasure and their table. This reminded him of the other problem. He had also decided he would not eat the dried fish they’d been given by the villagers. Even if he was starving.
Their progress was slow as Ari continued to give his donkey sufficient rests during their day of travel. It was only much later that Ari thought of a compromise. He had to admit, he had tested Lars’s patience. A lesser man might have reminded him who was the slave and who was the master and yet, Lars kept his promise, giving Ari the only freedom that was possible to him under the circumstances.
‘We could let the donkeys go,’ Ari said.
Lars turned to face him, a look of sheer stupefaction on his face. ‘Are you completely mad?’
‘I will explain.’ And then he proceeded to outline his plan. ‘Tonight, there will be a full moon and when I Change, you can ride on my back. We will travel much faster than we could by donkey and we needn’t stick to the highways. During the day we can rest and walk and when evening comes around, you can ride on my back once more.’
Lars had to laugh. ‘I’ll agree to anything that will get me home faster. By now my father is sure to have heard we were shipwrecked.’
True to his word, Ari was far swifter than the donkeys. He and Lars were no longer restricted to travel along the long and winding highway. More than once they frightened grazing animals during their flight and Lars had to admit, his ride was far more comfortable than the bony-back jiggle atop his donkey.
When the moon finally descended, and Ari had become a man once more, the two of them set up camp beside a small brook. The first rays of dawn crept across the horizon and the birds in the trees began to shrill and chirp.
‘I will gather some chickweed and berries while you sleep,’ Lars offered. ‘You must be starving by now.’ He did not mention that he would dine on the dried fish and a good slice of the cheese. Ari had refused both these foods the previous evening – eating only an apple, nuts and a handful of mushrooms they had found under a fallen log. It had started a long discussion between them, comparing their various customs. Lars remarked that he had never imagined two people could see the world so differently and that the gulf between their ideals seemed even wider than the seas they had just crossed. Most astounding however was the custom about eating no flesh. While Lars said he understood the practicalities of such a tradition – for who would wish to unwittingly eat his kin - he could not imagine such a diet.
*
It took them five days to travel to Lars’s county. They had travelled across plains, through a mountain pass, around a bog and through a vast forest that stretched all the way from County Ferringwood to the Downs border. It was a land of great beauty Ari thought, but it did not feed his heart. It was different to his homeland. Colder. Greener. With mountains that pierced the clouds and life that was strikingly different to the plants and animals of his people’s low-lying forests. But the thing that was notably absent was the language of his people. Wherever he walked through his homeland, there were signs of warning, signs of welcome, signs to tell where good water holes lay, where to gather a feast. But it was apparent that the people of Dracodia did not make this language. Even when the forest shrilled and buzzed and squawked and cried with the song of its inhabitants, it seemed strangely silent to Ari. Without the comforting language of his people, he felt an increasing heaviness in every step.
Lars, on the other hand, grew more excited as they drew closer to his home but must have noticed how withdrawn his companion had become, and halted under the shade of a pine.
‘I can see something is wrong,’ Lars said, reaching out and placing a hand on Ari’s shoulder.
‘You are nearly home, but I am moving further and further away from my people. I wonder if I will ever see them again.’
‘I’ll see that you do. And when I tell my father of your heroism, he is certain to grant you whatever you wish.’
‘You have great faith in your father,’ Ari said, considering his companion’s clear blue eyes. They were simple, unclouded with innocence. ‘Who else waits for you, at home?’
‘I have a son, Yaron. He is five or maybe six by now.’
‘A son?’ He felt it strange that Lars had made no mention of this before but perhaps it was one of those Dracodian things. ‘And a woman too?’
Lars dropped his eyes. ‘Morial died last winter.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It has been hard.’ Lars said, lifting his eyes briefly. ‘And I try not to think of it.’
This, Ari could not understand. Trying to forget the passing of a loved one? Was this the way of Dracodians too? In that moment, he felt pity for Lars. How was a man to do the right thing when he was raised with such wrong thinking? He felt a need to say something. ‘You know, my people have a saying. When you tell someone ‘Not to think of an elephant,’ the task is impossible. I think trying to forget her is like this. Grief is a poison in the belly and can do great damage if you keep it down.’
‘Well that’s all very well for your folk but this is the way I do it.’ Lars rose abruptly. ‘I prefer not to speak of it and I ask that you respect that.’ He strode off across the plain.
Ari watched the tight receding back of his friend. Well, not quite friend, he thought, but this word fitted better than enemy now. Still, he regretted his words. They had been said carelessly without any true knowledge of Lars’s past. He would have to be more careful in his judgements, he realised. He’d been trying to understand Lars through the eyes of his own people. And maybe, though he could not imagine it, there were other ways to see the world.
*
From the hilltop, they gazed on the grandeur of the Keep. From its highest tower a gold flag b
illowed at half mast, evidence that they had heard of the ship’s sinking.
Ari had never seen such an imposing building before. It was like a small mountain surrounded by a river that ate its own tail. Outside the walls there were a dozen cottages, an entire village of itself, and people with carts in a paddock beyond, tilling the dirt.
‘My home,’ Lars said, his chest visibly swelling with pride.
‘The home of many.’
‘A hundred or more.’ Lars beamed.
Lars marched down the hillside, for once his stride matching Ari’s. When they reached the bridge, a passing man dropped his bundle of sticks and flew to Lars’s side. ‘Senna Larson, is it?’ he said, bowing low. ‘We thought you’d died at sea.’
‘No Falder,’ Lars laughed. ‘I am alive, as you can see. Thanks to the bravery and honour of my friend here, Senna Ari.’
‘Oh Senna,’ Felder said, grabbing Ari’s hand. ‘What a blessing. Senna Jogan will be overjoyed.’
From there to the inner courtyard, Lars was stopped at least a dozen times by those that came to greet him and voice their wonder. Meanwhile, Ari trailed a couple of steps behind.
In his village, back home, the buildings were made from a beautiful red clay they dug from a quarry over the hill and then mixed with straw and set into moulds. He had always been proud of their village, had thought it very grand, but now he could see their dwellings were humble. In comparison, the walls of the Keep rose four buildings high, and were made of a silken yellow stone. There was not a crack, not a crumble, and it looked as though it could stand the force of a thousand gales all blowing at once. Under his feet lay smaller grey stones, all set in perfect lines.
‘Ari.’ Lars beckoned, his arm wrapped around the shoulder of another man. The other man watched very closely and eyed Ari with thinly veiled suspicion.
‘This is my brother, Worrel. And Worrel,’ he said turning to his brother, ‘this is the man to whom I owe my life. This is Ari.’
‘We are indebted to him,’ Worrel said with a stiff nod, his eyes lingering on the brand at Ari’s wrist. ‘And what’s this?’ he asked, running his fingers against the stubble on his brother’s chin.