by ML Spencer
Mistress Dayslin was the closest thing Anai had to an infirmarer, but she lived out beyond the mudflats to the north of the village. She’d been widowed several years before; her husband had been the mate of a herring bark that had capsized, and all aboard had drowned. Now she lived alone in a hut by the tide pools, where she tended her vegetable patch as well as any sick or injured that came her way.
Markus helped Aram down a short flight of stone steps onto the wet, sandy mud that lined the beach. The salty smell of the ocean thickened the air, and the sound of waves breaking against an offshore reef was a consistent, droning refrain. They picked their way across the wet runnels that drained the low-tide flats, at last gaining the footpath that led up the rocks to the widow’s home.
Fortunately, they found Mistress Dayslin kneeling in her vegetable garden. She was a stout woman in a wool dress and a traditional headscarf, her perpetual scowl an indicator of her sour personality. She looked up from her weeding, eyes squinted by the sun. One look at Aram brought her to her feet.
“Inside.” She motioned them toward the door of her hut.
Dusting off her skirt, she followed them within, closing the door firmly behind her, which made dust rain from the ceiling. The interior of the hut was dim, the only light coming from a small, slatted window and holes in the wattle and daub walls. It smelled of mildew and old straw, and as they entered, a wood mouse skittered into a gap in the wattle.
“Sit him down there.” Mistress Dayslin nodded toward a cane chair in the corner, wiping her hands on a rag.
Markus guided Aram to the chair, where the boy sat with his eyes locked on the wall in front of him, his fingers drumming his thighs. Mistress Dayslin bent over him and started dabbing at his scalp with the rag. As she tended the wound, Aram rocked slightly in the chair, the motion making the legs creak.
“Sit still,” she commanded. “How long’s your blood been brown?”
“All my life.” Aram sucked in a hiss of pain, his back stiffening, but his fingers maintained their tempo.
The widow gave a grunt then dipped her rag in a bowl of water. She proceeded to wipe the blood from Aram’s face none too tenderly while the boy just rocked, staring straight ahead as though transfixed by something on the wall. Markus looked on, burning with curiosity even though he was anxious to be on his way. If he lingered too long, his father would start missing him. He was supposed to be down at the docks inspecting their small fleet of fishing vessels for needed repairs, but he felt somehow responsible for the boy, so he felt compelled to stay.
Even though he’d lived in the same village as Aram all his life, he didn’t know much about him, for the boy had always kept to himself. People said he’d been born addled, but Markus wasn’t sure he agreed with that assessment. Aram looked just like any other boy from the North Coast. A trifle smaller than most twelve-year-olds, with warm brown skin and ruddy brown hair. If it hadn’t been for his eyes, he might have been a good-enough looking lad. But Aram’s eyes were … disturbing was the best word Markus could think of to describe them. They always stared fiercely straight ahead, and if you looked at them hard—really looked at them—you could tell they were made of little flecks of every color, almost like opal stones.
“There,” the widow said with one last dab of the cloth. “Now, try not to bleed when people are looking.”
“What does it mean?” asked Markus.
Mistress Dayslin scowled, the expression cleaving deep lines into her jowls. “It means his blood’s brown.”
Markus rolled his eyes. That hadn’t been the answer he’d walked a mile and risked a switching to hear. “But why’s it brown?”
The widow wrang her cloth out into the bowl, which, by now, contained water the color of dark sludge. With two fingers, she scooped something that looked like orange jelly out of a jar, smearing it over the abrasions on Aram’s face.
“Sometimes it happens. Not often. But it does happen. Just don’t let the Imperials see you bleed,” she admonished Aram with a raised finger. “They take people with the Old Blood.”
Aram sat with his back stiff and straight, unmoving as she applied the balm to his scrapes. His eyes hadn’t stopped staring at the same patch on the wall the entire time.
“Where would they take me?” asked Aram.
The widow glanced at him with an irritated expression then tossed the brown-stained rag into a corner. “Never you mind that. Now, run along, both of you.”
Aram rose from his chair with a muttered “thank you” and dodged out of the hut before Markus could react.
“Thanks,” Markus gulped and headed after him. It took him a few long strides to catch up, for Aram was already headed for the trail back to the village, seemingly without a care for the widow’s dire warning.
“Wait!” Markus called, catching up with him. “Does anyone in your family have brown blood?”
Without looking at him, Aram shrugged.
Markus tried to remember what he knew of Aram’s father. Darand Raythe had left the village years before, never to return. No one knew why. He’d just sneaked off one night and never came back. There was lots of speculation, of course, but most people agreed that he’d likely fled to escape the responsibility of raising a slow-witted child. Though, after what the widow had just said, Markus wondered about that. Perhaps the Imperials had gotten hold of him.
He asked, “What did the bard say to you?”
Aram shrugged. “He said he liked my eyes.”
“Oh.” He’d been hoping the bard’s interest in Aram would provide a clue about the boy’s peculiarity. Aram’s eye color was certainly unusual, though not nearly as alarming as syrup-brown blood.
“Well, still, that’s fantastic. Maybe he’ll pick you for an apprentice.”
Markus couldn’t keep his disappointment from his voice, for he felt that his own chances of becoming the bard’s apprentice had just been diminished considerably. He was desperate for the bard to pick him. He’d lived his entire life in Anai and couldn’t stand it any longer. He despised everything about the village—the constant bad weather, the everlasting smell of fish, the goodwives forever in your business, full of judgement for everyone but themselves. Above everything else, he hated his father. He wanted away from him, and he couldn’t leave soon enough.
“I don’t want to be picked,” Aram said, a statement that shocked Markus.
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to be a bard.”
Markus flashed him a look of disbelief. “You need to stop and think about that. I mean, can you imagine a better life? Traveling from village to village and talking to different people, eating loads of…”
He let his voice trail off when he realized no one was listening to him. Halting, Markus turned to see that Aram had stopped a good fifteen paces behind him. Brow crinkled in confusion, Markus walked back to him across the wet sand of the mudflat.
“Why’d you just stop?” he asked.
“Because you told me to.”
“I did not—”
But he had.
Markus brought a hand up, scratching the back of his head roughly. He’d told Aram to stop and think, but he hadn’t meant right now. What kind of person would take such an expression so literally?
Aram’s kind of person, he decided. Markus stared for a moment at the peculiar boy he’d gotten himself entangled with, starting to get an idea why everyone considered him slow. But he wasn’t slow. Just different, in some significant way.
“Come along, then.” He started forward, hoping Aram would follow him. Turning around, he walked backward a few steps. “So, if you don’t want to be a bard, what do you want to be?”
With a smile that brought his face to life, Aram jogged forward to catch up with him. “I want to be a sailor!”
Markus scrunched his nose. Practically everyone he knew was a fisherman or a sailor, and he knew for a fact that it was a miserable life. Very few sailors had families, and those who did never saw them more than a few times a y
ear. Life at sea was wet, cold, and solitary. And all it took was one look at Aram to see that he didn’t have the personality for it. Sailing was a hard life, and it took a hard man to lead it.
He asked, “Why would you want to be a sailor, of all things?”
“Because sailors spend all day tying knots.”
“Knots…?” Markus’s feet slowed as his brain struggled to process the remark. Knots were certainly useful but not something to build one’s life around. Then he remembered the knotted piece of twine Aram had shown the bard. It had looked well-made.
“Well, you seem to be good with knots,” he allowed.
Aram’s exuberance roiled like a boiling pot on the verge of bubbling over. “I know more about knots than almost anyone in the world!”
The statement caught Markus by surprise, for not only was it outlandish, but it was also awfully boastful. If any other boy Aram’s age had made such a claim, Markus would have called him out for being a braggard, but one glance at Aram’s face made him think that the boy wasn’t bragging. He stopped in his tracks, but Aram kept walking, either not noticing or not caring.
“Why knots?” Markus called after him.
Aram paused and turned back. There was something burning in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Was it yearning? Hope? Markus couldn’t be sure. But whatever it was, it looked as timid and delicate as a caterpillar, and just as easily squashed.
“Do you want to see?” Aram whispered.
Something told Markus that he really did want to see. But then he thought about his father and the work he was supposed to be doing back home, a thought that made him squirm. If he didn’t return home soon, he’d get more than just a switching. But curiosity got the better of him, and he couldn’t resist.
“All right, then,” he decided. “Show me.”
The smile that bloomed on Aram’s face was a beautiful thing. Without a word, he hastened back toward Markus, but strode past him back in the direction of the widow’s hut and the woods beyond. Markus hurried after him, having a hard time catching up with the boy’s eager strides. They walked along the wet sand of the shoreline, the waves breaking nearby, rushing toward them with white froth and a sizzling sound, only to retreat again to be absorbed by the sea. A number of gulls circled overhead, some two-dozen or more. They hung like kites in the air, using the steady ocean breeze to hold them in place until the waves retreated, then dove with piercing cries to scoop up sand crabs before the next wave could reclaim them.
It wasn’t to the grove beyond the widow’s hut that Aram led him, but to the dark cliffs beneath it, and the tide pools that extended out away from the cliffs into the sea. When Aram started climbing across a wide tumble of volcanic rocks, Markus hesitated. The rocks were sharp, and the waves crashing against them were large enough to knock a boy right off and carry him out to sea. They were breaking further out, though a large enough wave could come along at any time and sweep them both away, a thought that made his heart beat faster.
“Where are we going?” Markus climbed onto the rocks after Aram, picking his way carefully and trying hard not to get gouged.
“You’ll see!”
Markus wasn’t sure he liked that answer, for it contained no information about time or distance, both of which concerned him greatly. Nevertheless, he scrambled along the rocks, following his enthusiastic guide, picking his way around sea urchins and anemones, sharp outcrops and fiddler crabs. The strong odor of kelp filled his nostrils, and the cold sea breeze bit his face, misting him with spray.
At length, they reached a place along the tidepools where the adjacent cliffs bowed inward. Aram climbed down off the rocks, jumping to the sandy beach. Following him, Markus glimpsed the thin opening of a cave ahead, just large enough to crawl into, almost hidden by a massive boulder that had broken off and fallen from the cliffs surrounding it.
“That doesn’t look safe.” Markus paused, realizing by Aram’s trajectory that the cave must be their destination. “If the tide comes up, it could fill that cave and drown us.”
“It doesn’t ever get that high.” Aram dropped to his hands and knees and crawled inside without hesitation.
Markus stood still for a moment, considering the dark opening, then glanced back over his shoulder in the direction of the village. He really should be getting back. His father was surely expecting him by now, and to say he didn’t like to be kept waiting was an understatement.
“Come on!” came Aram’s voice, small and echoing.
Markus drew a deep breath and mumbled, “This is a bad idea,” before dropping to the dirt and following him in.
The passage was low and narrow, just tall enough to crawl through on all fours, with a sandy bottom that swallowed his palms. And it was dark. The light faded completely after a short distance, until he couldn’t see anything in front of him. A cold shiver inched across his skin, a sudden and intense feeling of foreboding. He felt the weight of the ceiling pressing down, the hungry ocean rising behind him, the monster surely lurking ahead in the darkness… But he bit his lip and pressed on, hearing Aram’s sharp breathing echoing ahead of him. Knowing the boy was safe made him feel a little better.
He wasn’t sure how far they’d gone when a light appeared ahead and Aram announced, “You can stand up now.”
Markus stood carefully, holding one hand over his head lest he bump the ceiling. The cave had widened substantially, and the light coming from a turn ahead was heartening. Aram stood and motioned him forward, excitement glowing on his face.
Markus hesitated, glancing at the bleak walls. “Why are we here, Aram?”
“Because this is where the cave leads.”
Markus felt like knuckling his brow. “I meant, what’s here that you want to show me?”
“Come see!”
Aram disappeared around the bend in the cave. Despite the nagging urge to leave, Markus followed. He turned the corner and halted, sucking in a sharp breath.
They stood within a wide cavern with tall, curving walls. The roof had partially collapsed in the middle, admitting a bright shaft of light that shone down onto a small pile of rubble. All around the walls were drawings of animals and sea creatures that looked to be the effort of a small child.
But it wasn’t the cavern that stunned him.
It was what lay on the ground.
Aram stood on the pile of dirt in the center of the large space, surrounded by a ring of stones he must have placed himself. All around him, twisted jute rope had been laid across the floor in both directions, marking out small squares of perfectly even sizes. Within each square was displayed a short length of knotted cord. Some squares were broken up into smaller squares, containing knots tied with thinner string. Markus let his gaze slide down the first row of squares, then the next row, then the next—hundreds of squares, hundreds of knots, filling the entire cavern floor.
His eyes snapped back to Aram, widened by shock. “Did you … make all this?”
Standing with his arms crossed within his ring of stones, Aram nodded avidly. “I told you I’m good with knots.”
Markus gazed around the cavern in dismay, grappling to comprehend the implications of what he was seeing. The time it would take to tie so many knots … the time it would take to learn so many knots…
“How many knots are there?”
Without pause, Aram answered, “One thousand two hundred and forty-three.”
Markus blinked, astonished by both the preciseness of the number and the stupefying effort that had gone into amassing such a collection.
“That’s a lot of knots…” he whispered.
An understatement.
Aram pointed to the far side of the cave. “On this side are knots made with a single cord.” He moved down to the next group of squares. “Over here are knots made with multiple cords.” He stooped, moving his finger along one of the rows. “These here are splices, for tying two ropes together. Over here are hitches, for anchoring a rope to something else. These are knob knots, t
hose over there are multiple-loop knots, the ones next to them are binding knots—”
“Wait!” Markus threw his hands up, his mind reeling. “How do you know all this? How did you make all these knots?”
Aram gave him a confused look. With a shrug, he said, “I learned them. From sailors, mostly. Sailors know their knots—they’re experts! Knots are what they do every day. Some even know secret knots! Sometimes, if I show a sailor a new knot they haven’t learned, they’ll show me one of their secret knots. Here, look! Over here I’ve got—”
It was too much. Markus’s brain already felt like it was drowning under the tide of information coming at him, and all the types of knots were blurring together. “This is … this is incredible,” he stammered. Bending, he picked one up, a large, beautifully symmetrical knot that had an elaborate basket-weave pattern.
“Don’t touch that!”
Markus flinched, dropping the knotted cord, startled by the outright panic in Aram’s voice. He looked up at him, his heart thrumming against his ribs.
“Don’t touch that!” Aram repeated, but this time, it sounded more like a whimpering plea. “Every knot has its place, and if you touch them, they might get out of order!”
Markus fought to get his breathing back under control, his alarm turning to anger. The boy had given him a fright, and for no good reason. Huffing, he rose and started back toward the mouth of the cave.
“Wait!” Aram called after him. “Where are you going?”
“Back,” Markus responded sharply.
“You’re angry.”
Markus stopped and looked at him. “Yes. I’m angry.”
“I’m sorry…”
There were tears on Aram’s face. He was actually crying. Markus flung out his arms, exasperated, not knowing what to do. The sight of the boy’s tears drove home the fact that, no matter how exceptional Aram was, there was something that was just not right about him.