by Ila Mercer
‘I have decided to grow it.’
‘I’m sure Papa will have something to say about that. Come,’ he said, herding Lars and Ari across the courtyard. ‘We mustn’t keep the old goat. He has heard and is expecting me to bring you straight away.’
‘Where’s Yaron?’ Lars asked, looking around the yard.
‘With the Jims, is my guess. I have told Old Stac to hunt them down. Last I saw, they were headed for the fields.’
They wound their way through a labyrinth of corridors and rooms. On the walls, lavish tapestries hung, depicting various pastoral scenes. Great fat candles, that would have kept Ari’s village lit for a month, illuminated their path. Why did they not build windows, he wondered, and have as much of the natural light as they wished? It seemed a waste to burn candles in the middle of the day.
Finally, they entered the ‘old goats’ chamber. In a corner of the great room, three older men sat beside a lit fireplace. Two of them were garbed in simple brown robes and the third wore an indigo tunic trimmed with gold. The third rose as soon as they entered and opened his arms in greeting.
‘Papa,’ Lars cried, falling into the arms of the old man.
‘My son,’ his father said, squeezing hard. He was a more weathered, stouter version of Lars, but with a set to his mouth and chin that suggested stubbornness. It was still a shock to Ari, seeing men with bare faces, more so when they were elderly. Back home, the old men wore beards to their chests, often plaited and decorated with beads or shells. Their long silver beards were a mark of their wisdom. In comparison, the Drac men appeared as foolish as youths. It was because their expressions were so much easier to read: in the turn of a lip, the arrogant drawing down of the mouth, the nervous bobbing of the stone in the throat.
Sliding from his father’s embrace, Lars addressed the other two men. ‘Brother Be. Brother…’
‘Sneet.’ This Brother sat as rigid as a post and held out a hand adorned in rings.
Lars took the proffered hand and kissed one of the rings. Then, he turned to Brother Be who was, by this time, wobbling dangerously as he lurched from his seat.
‘Don’t rise on my account,’ Lars said, rushing to assist the older brown robed man.
But the older Brother gripped Lars by the arm and hauled himself up. ‘Good to see you home safe, son,’ he said, wheezing from the effort of rising. ‘I told you the sea is a cruel mistress.’
‘Yes, you did.’ Lars said, embracing the old man.
‘Is this the one?’ Brother Be asked, squinting at Ari.
Ari shifted his weight from one foot to the other, conscious that he was now being measured and judged by all three men.
‘Yes.’ Lars beamed. ‘This is Ari. The one who pulled me from the bottom of the sea. Ari? I want you to meet Brother Sneet, Brother Be, and my father, Senna Jogan.’
Ari stepped forward. He did not know what custom dictated, so he bowed low as was the custom of his people.
‘Ah, the Beast who saved my son,’ Senna Jogan said.
‘He can understand you,’ Lars said.
‘Indeed! A Beast who understands Drac. Can he speak it too?’
‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’
Senna Jogan stepped forward, regarding Ari closely. ‘How did you come to learn Drac? I imagine there’s a tale in that.’
‘There is little to tell,’ Ari replied. ‘I learned from a Drac. He was a healer who could not bear the conditions on board his ship any longer. He lived with us for over a year, until fever struck him down and since he found it hard to master our tongue, it was only natural I learned his.’
‘You speak like an educated man. Fancy that.’ He turned to Brother Sneet, who had his ringed hands folded in his lap. ‘Did you know they could master our tongue with such ease?’
Brother Sneet raised one brow. ‘To master a language is not such a clever trick. I learned to speak the tongues of five other nations before the age of six. But to read, to comprehend the texts of the Cartal and interpret them wisely, is something that might impress me more.’
‘Yes, I suppose you are right. Does he read?’ Jogan said, turning to Lars.
Lars winced slightly and turned to Ari.
‘We do not make the symbols,’ Ari answered for himself. The Drac healer had taught him a few words by drawing them in the dirt but without a pen, parchment or books, he said the task was too hard. The healer had given up, and Ari did not press him. Instead he taught the healer to learn the signs his people left for each other in the forest.
‘Writing makes a nation,’ Brother Sneet said, leaning forward in his seat. ‘When you rely on word of mouth to pass on laws and knowledge, you do so from memory. They are like the shifting sand of the desert, blowing this way and that with the winds of whim. But write a law, write history, write what you know, and you pass this untainted wisdom to the next generation. Why are we the greatest sea-faring nation in the world?’ He did not wait for an answer, but barrelled on, completely warmed to his subject, eyes gleaming. ‘It’s through mastery of the pen. I will give you an example: the ship builders guild has volumes and volumes of books detailing the best way to caulk a hull, rig a sail or fashion a keel. Or take the Seafarer’s guild, who keep records of the best routes on maps. You would agree, wouldn’t you, Brother Be?’
Brother Be, who had returned to his seat, replied after several moments of consideration. ‘Well… yes. A map can be handy, I’ll admit. But I’m not certain it proves our superiority over others. I’ve seen Captains perform great follies despite everything they might know about shipping routes. So, it seems to me that knowledge does not equal wisdom.’
‘Hmm. Perhaps what I mean is a collective wisdom, rather than that of the individual. Without our collective wisdom, we’d still be paddling bark canoes down the river.’ He paused for a moment and tilted his head. ‘I can get carried away, once I am on the subject,’ Brother Sneet said. ‘But you’ll allow me to say one more thing?’
‘Could I stop you if I wished?’ Jogan said, falling into his chair and pouring some wine into his goblet.
Ari noticed that Worrel, Lars’s brother, stifled a yawn.
‘The thing that sets us above all others, above every bird and beast, above all other nations, is the word of the Cartal. There lies our greatest strength.’
‘True, true,’ Jogan said, clasping his palms together. ‘But now, I would like to hear about my son’s misadventures.’
After they had each settled into chairs and Senna Jogan had called for refreshments, Lars launched into a full retelling of their dramas at sea. He was deadly accurate in his recount of every cruelty played out on the slaves and his father nodded sagely, with an ever-deepening frown. When Lars told his father about his abandonment by the crew, his father’s face grew graver still.
‘I can see that I must be far more careful in my selection of Captain and crew in the future.’
Lars’s face fell. ‘But after everything I’ve told you Papa, you can’t mean to continue with the trade.’
‘We can’t afford not to,’ Jogan replied.
Ari could feel his face burn. It was as he had supposed. He should have run at the first opportunity and stolen a vessel to return to his people but then he remembered the length of the voyage, the savagery of the sea. Who did he think he was fooling? He would never be able to return without the aid of his captors.
‘Senna Jogan, you summoned us?’ Two voices called from behind, in unison.
Lars swivelled and then leapt from his seat. ‘Yaron!’ he cried.
Ari turned too. In the doorway stood two dark skinned men and a small blonde boy. The men were identical in every detail from face, height, stance, feathered hats, puce cloaks and black boots. Even the fine lines on their faces appeared to have weathered the same way. They shuffled awkwardly under the gaze of the group and tried to push the small boy forward. ‘Don’t you want to greet your papa?’ One of them said but the small boy shook his head and hid his face against the thigh of the man next t
o him.
Lars slowed and dropped to his knees when he was in front of the boy. ‘Yaron?’
The small boy shook his head again and nuzzled closer to the man.
‘See, it’s your papa,’ the other twin said and, when that did not get a response, he said to Lars, ‘he was told yesterday you’d left us for good. Maybe he thinks you’re a ghost, even though we said you weren’t.’
Lars reached out to touch his son but hesitated and withdrew his hand. ‘It must be a shock. I’ll see him later. Let him grow accustomed to the idea first.’
‘We’ll talk to him some more,’ the twins said and then they ushered the small boy out, who peeped, once, from the folds of the twins’ cloak before leaving the room.
Lars returned to his chair with a solemn face.
‘He’ll come around,’ Brother Be said, patting Lars on the knee.
‘Has he spoken since I left?’
Jogan shook his head. ‘Not a word.’
Lars sighed. ‘There’s a sickness in him. It’s not natural that a child should suddenly go mute. Have you sought the advice of another physic?’
‘Two more since you left, though neither could find anything wrong with the boy. He is healthy, by all accounts,’ Jogan replied.
‘Perhaps it’s a sickness of a different sort,’ Brother Sneet said. ‘When did you say his mother died?’ Jogan flashed a warning with his eyes, but Sneet either did not see or took no heed. ‘Did the onset of his malady coincide with the loss of his mother?’
For the first time since he had met Sneet, Ari agreed with something he’d said. He did not wonder that the boy had lost the art of speech. He was only imitating his father, who would not speak about the loss of his mate.
‘I can’t see that it’s related,’ Lars said.
‘Oh, but I think it might be,’ Sneet answered.
‘Perhaps now is not the time to go into this,’ Jogan cut in. ‘Once Lars has rested he will be in the right frame of mind to consider what’s to be done. I doubt you’ve slept for days by the look of those dark circles under your eyes and I have ordered the maids to refresh your room.’
‘Thankyou papa,’ Lars said. ‘I would like to rest now, and I imagine Ari feels the same. Which room will you give him?’
Senna Jogan seemed suddenly perplexed. ‘Yes, a room.’ He tapped the arm of his chair, as if in thought.
‘What?’ Lars said, picking up his father’s hesitation.
Turning to Ari, Senna Jogan said, ‘I’m going to speak frankly now, because you see, I don’t know what I am to do with you.’ Then he turned to Lars. ‘On the one hand, he holds a place of honour for saving your life, but on the other hand he’s still a Beast.’
‘He has earned his freedom.’
Brother Sneet butted in, ‘Naturally I agree that your Beast, Ari, has shown exceptional character but what you seek has no precedence. The Cartal is clear. Man dominates the birds and the beasts. Forgive me for saying, but this is not a decision that can be made by your father. The Order will need to consider the matter very carefully before it sanctions the liberation of a Beast.’
‘He is a Beast in name only. His actions were that of a man.’
Ari could feel a hot flush of shame spread through his whole body, swiftly followed by a surge of anger. If he could have, he would have left their company at once. Even Lars had failed him. Did he not understand that Beasts wore their name with pride, that it meant something noble where he came from?
‘What would you have us do?’ Senna Jogan asked.
Sneet tapped his chin with his fingers, his grotesque rings glittering in the firelight. ‘He has proven his valour, but does he possess the intellect and the moral fortitude of a man? I wonder…’ his eyes slid over Ari. ‘I propose a challenge to your new friend. If he can read and argue a case for his freedom using three tenants from the Cartal then I will champion for his release. I will return by after Midsummer and test him myself.’
‘That’s hardly fair,’ Lars cried. ‘The Cartal is not an easy book to read let alone interpret. It takes years of study to understand its tenants. Say something, Brother Be.’
‘Lars, it’s hardly our place to dictate terms to the Order,’ Jogan cut in.
‘I agree. It does not seem fair,’ Brother Be said, shaking his head.
‘Nevertheless-’ Brother Sneet started.
‘I will do it,’ Ari cut in, stepping forward. He felt he had nothing to lose – he was a captive in a strange land with no means of escape. If he earned his freedom, perhaps he could earn his passage home. But most importantly, he wanted to prove them wrong. He wanted to show that a Beast was equal to any Dracodian man.
‘Then it is settled,’ Brother Sneet said, rising from his chair. ‘I look forward to our next meeting but now, it is time that Brother Be and I to depart. If we are to reach Hollowglen by nightfall, we must leave now.’
‘You are leaving?’ Lars asked, directing the question to Brother Be.
‘It seems, I must,’ he said, pulling himself up by the arms of the chair. ‘I have been summoned, for what I do not know,’ he said glancing sideways at Brother Sneet. ‘But I expect I will be back before long. In the meantime, help your new friend. He has quite a challenge ahead of him.’
Little she-Beast
Yaron and his uncle paused at the first crest. Their eyes swept a landscape made soft under the pale moon. The mountains looked like a child’s zigzag drawing and the trees were dark blurs with haloed tips. On the plain below, the Keep cast a dark shadow.
In his childhood, Yaron thought the Keep was the biggest and grandest building in the land, but now he knew this was not true. By Dracodian standards, the Downs had one of the smallest and oldest of Keeps. It was said that due to soft alluvial soils, the Keep sank by a hand span each year. Two former Keeps, it was rumoured, lay buried beneath its foundations.
Beyond the walls, lay a scattering of small huts, bordered by the vineyard and orchard. Again, they were only visible as small blocks of darkness because no light shone from their windows.
Years ago, those windows had glowed with candlelight well into fall, casting light across the faces of the seasonal pickers as they set about their evening tasks. But not this evening. The pickers had stopped coming to the Downs. Lured by the boom in Yawmouth where they made more money on the docks in a week than they could from a season on the land. Only that summer, cartloads of fruit had withered on the Downs vines and rotted beneath the trees. The sheer waste had angered Senna Worrel so greatly that he appealed to neighbouring Keeps for labourers. A handful had been sent by their nearest neighbour, but the other Keeps had their own harvest to worry about. Apart from that, many Dracodians felt the Downs hardship was self-inflicted. The Dracodians had a saying that summed up this feeling perfectly: you cannot pull the carpet from under your own feet and expect to remain standing.
The Downs had not always relied so heavily on agricultural trade. Despite its distance from the sea, it had once commanded the largest fleet of ships in Dracodia. After the fleet burned and Yaron’s father died, many things had changed.
‘You come of age next summer,’ Senna Worrel said, his eyes still sweeping the plain for any sign of movement.
‘I know,’ Yaron replied.
Until these words were uttered, they had ridden in silence. Though silence was the wrong word to describe it. There had been the sound of the breeze soughing through the pines, the whoosh of hooves wading through pasture, a startled cry from a night jay as it fled its nest. And of course, the heavy presence of things unsaid – a silence that intruded on Yaron’s peace of mind more effectively than the clanging of gongs. Just once, Yaron had thought his uncle might leave the burdens of office behind. Clearly this was not to be.
He would soon be twenty-one, the age of majority. The age a man could wed, own a Beast, rule a holding. The idea left him with a strange mix of feelings – a constricting ache throughout his entire body one moment, a heady wave of skittish energy the next.
; ‘So, have you thought any more on what we discussed?’ Senna Worrel asked.
‘I’m not ready for marriage.’
Senna Worrel snapped back, ‘It’s not a matter of whether you’re ready or not. What are we to do next winter when the coffers are empty? If we have another season like the last, that’s what we face.’ Then, perhaps because he knew he had been too sharp, his voice softened. ‘Do you remember the hunts your grandfather held? The balls he put on at midsummer? Nobility came from every corner of the land and nobody every wanted to go home. Dozens of pavilions were pitched on the common when the Keep overflowed with guests. We were something then.’ His voice sounded wistful. ‘But now look at us,’ Senna Worrel continued. ‘A ruin of a Keep, half our folk gone to the cities, and our stocks dwindling by the year.’
His uncle sighed. ‘I took account of our holdings this afternoon. We have barely enough grain to get through the winter. The truffles and wine we’ve harvested will barely pay our tithe to The Order, and we’ll be eating porridge and beets til next spring. We’ve paid more than enough for your father’s deed.’
Yaron bridled but said nothing. He hated it when his uncle spoke of his father this way. But he knew his uncle was right about marriage. If the Downs were to ever regain its wealth and prestige, it would only be through an alliance with a more powerful County.
The horses pricked up their ears and shook their manes. Senna Worrel turned to see what had caught their attention. At the bottom of the next valley a silver lake shone with the reflected light of the moon. Silhouetted against the stark silver, a herd of animals milled at the waters edge, taking turns to dip their muzzles.
‘Sia Fallengrove sent word today. She invited us to her next hunt,’ Senna Worrel said. ‘It’s a night hunt.’
Yaron’s head bowed slightly. ‘They’ve heard I am coming of age.’
‘You’re quite a catch.’
‘You mean they have their eye on the Downs,’ Yaron said. ‘After hearing rumours that there’s silver in our ranges. They’d have Beasts tunnelling the hillsides before the ink on the marriage contract dried.’