First Truth

by Dawn Cook

  Rema nodded. Her cheeks were flushed. They both knew the ruder he made the silk sound, the more elegant it probably was. And that, of course, was the game.

  Hiding a grin, Strell opened his pack and pulled out the cloth intended for his mother. He would give her his mirror instead. He kept his back to Rema as he unfolded the cloth, spinning quickly to make it furl out across the table, covering all the maps in a glorious wave.

  “Oh,” Rema sighed, letting her desire show for a brief instant. This was allowed. It was an expansive compliment, carefully ignored by the wise trader. Then the wistful look in her eyes vanished. “Oh,” she said again with a false melancholy. “I see what you mean. Such a thin weave. The threads aren’t even. The colors have faded.” Her hand reached partway out, unable to hide her longing to run the silky fabric through her fingers.

  Strell carefully tugged at the silk, making pleats to best show off the tight weave. Rills of light ran across the table as the sun glinted on the tops of the folds. To her credit, Rema put her hands behind her back, never touching the fabric. It showed a strong will and an experienced player. Silently he waited. He had made the first overture to trade, however nebulous it had been, and so it was up to her to openly broach the subject.

  “A mother cherishes the rudest of gifts,” she said softly, “when it comes from a loving heart.” She smiled, a glimmer of loss in her eyes. “Still, the size of it would do nicely for a scarf, as you say. And the green, though faded, will probably go well against her skin.” Rema paused, and Strell waited. “I would quite fancy a green like that, if the weave was tighter and there being more to it than the small square you have there. Even so, would you consider trading it to me?”

  Strell grinned. The show of emotion was far beyond the rules, but it didn’t seem to matter anymore. “This shoddy piece of crafting?” he said, snatching it up to expose the maps underneath. “I couldn’t. The council would have me up against the pole for cheating you out of your worthy goods.” He hesitated. “Unless you have something equally coarse and ill-made?”

  Rema nodded slowly, her eyes on the fabric. “As you say, my husband’s map is rather unattractive and badly stained. I would say it’s fit only for diapering a child. I’ve no use for it. Would you consider that?”

  “A rag for a rag,” Strell mused, looking to the ceiling in apparent idleness. “I think the council would smile upon such a worthless trade. Done and done, if you will?”

  “Done and done,” Rema repeated. Only now did she touch the silk, taking the fabric from him and holding it up to herself. She smiled, looking ten years younger. The game was over. “It’s so beautiful. They weave on the coast?”

  “They do everything on the coast,” he said. “Most fish, but the craftsmen and farmers live beside each other.” Strell shrugged. “It’s like the Navigator’s garden.”

  Rema seemed to have hardly heard him. “I never thought I’d ever have anything so fine again. Thank you, Strell.”

  Embarrassed at her delight with the fabric, Strell reached for his new map, having to unroll it for a last look before consigning it to his pack.

  “Here,” Rema said, reaching for the tie that bound her hair. “I’ve clearly gotten the better of the deal. Let me even it out a bit.”

  Strell’s eyes widened as she took the map from his slack fingers and rolled it up, tying it with her hair ribbon. A gift of a lady’s ribbon was a token of affection in the plains.

  “It’s been so long,” she said in explanation, flushing. “These farmers don’t know how to bargain, and nothing fine ever makes it this far into the foothills. I owe you supper, too. Please stay and tell me the news of the plains.”

  “My news,” he said with a laugh, “is six years old. You probably know more about who has married whom than I do.” Strell half turned his back on her and placed the map in his bag, sorry in a way that he was in such a hurry to get home.

  Rema straightened. “I suppose,” she said with a soft disappointment, draping her silk in a puddle on one of the chairs. “Let me see if I can find that map showing the plains.”

  Feeling awkward and uneasy, Strell stood in Rema’s kitchen as she continued searching through the leather skins. It was obvious she longed to return to the plains. The question of why she hadn’t was one he didn’t want to delve into.

  “Ah, here it is.”

  Strell stepped close, looking to where a slim finger pointed to an X with the word “home” written next to it. “This is where we are,” she said. “And I believe Hirdune was here.” Rema pointed again. Her head bent closer to see the light tracings of the more traveled footpaths. “Not too far,” she said with a forced brightness. “Is your home near there?”

  Again Strell found himself mesmerized by the incredible detail. Even the river that had cut his family’s ravine was shown. “Well,” he said, grinning, slightly embarrassed, “not exactly. If the truth be told, I’m a Hirdune. We all live there.” He bent closer to estimate the distance, holding his breath against the pungent scent of ink. “Just a few weeks away,” he said, pleased.

  Rema grew still. Slowly she gathered the sheets except for the one he was still pondering and set them aside. “You say your entire family lived there?” she said slowly.

  Catching the past tense in her words, Strell looked up, and upon seeing the pity in her eyes, his chest tightened in panic. “What do you mean, lived there?”

  “Oh, Strell.” Rema took his hands and led him to a stool. “I don’t want to be the one to tell you this, but five years ago the spring rains came with the snowmelt. There was an unexpected flood wash. The settlement of Hirdune was completely destroyed. No one made it out of the ravine.”

  4

  She was moonstruck, Strell thought as he trudged down the mountain toward the village. Stark raving moonstruck. The idea that his family could be gone without him knowing was ludicrous.

  Strell turned, offering a wave to the poor woman before striding under the trees. He ought to have realized she was mad the moment he had found her here. A plainswoman would have to be crazed to live among farmers. He was willing to bet he would hear a few tales tonight of the mad plainswoman who lived on the hill. Strell smiled faintly. He had asked for it, really, blurting out that he was a Hirdune. His family was well-known for its skill in pottery, and gossip flowed thick and fast. She may have only been harassing him for having laid claim to them. His first wash of panic at her words had quickly vanished, leaving only annoyance.

  Still, he mused, pausing to pull a blackberry cane from his sleeve, her eyes seemed to have held true sorrow. She had said she knew what it was like to lose your entire world, and seeing her standing alone in the front yard when he said good-bye, it seemed she did.

  His family was fine, he thought as he picked his way through the light underbrush. He would know otherwise. He would have to. How could they be gone and he not know it?

  Strell soon found the rutty path leading down and to the east. Rema’s thoughts may be addled, but her directions were sound. Feeling more confident now that he was again on a well-traveled road, he strode forward, eager to find the village before the sun set. He hadn’t seen a road in over a month. But even without it, he would know he was headed in the right direction. The smoke-stained sky was better than a sign for pointing out the way.

  Strell came upon a silent farm, quickly passing with his head lowered in case it wasn’t as deserted as it seemed. The yard was neat and clean, the fences painted and the fields weed-free, looking bare from the recent harvest. The next farm was quiet, too, but for a wildly barking dog. The sheep were fenced in close to the barn. He was beginning to wonder what was going on until he met a wagon lumbering up the mountain.

  The back was empty of produce, carrying instead a group of adults and children. They seemed well-fed and content, eyeing him with distrust as they passed. Several cloth-wrapped packages made a modest pile behind the driver. Now Strell knew why the farmyards were empty. It was market day, the only occasion when the footh
ills and plains folk mixed.

  Over the ages, an uneasy balance had emerged between their two societies. The foothills had the land to grow and raise food. The plains had the raw materials and time to make goods. They traded, exchanging the skills of the soil for that of weft and weave, clay and carving. Necessity fostered a slow hatred of each other as they gouged prices as deeply as was prudent. But they were careful to never come to blows. It was a truce they dared not upset.

  He smiled tightly, ignoring it when one of the men spit in his path. Today, out of all days, he could linger in a foothills village without drawing attention to himself, and perhaps make a little something if he cared to try a few of his newest tunes. There would be plainsmen about, and they would pay to hear his music.

  As the sun dipped to the horizon, the fields grew fewer and the fences more numerous until Strell walked between thatched houses instead of trees. The road became slick with mud, and after his weeks in the mountains, the stink of people seemed to catch in his throat. Never meeting the villagers’ eyes, he confidently walked down the street, headed for the square where the wagons would be set up. Small homes made up the bulk of what he passed. Hard-packed dirt and weeds made thin strips between the buildings. It was nothing like the clean sands of his homeland. Strell’s thoughts went distant in anticipation. There was space in the plains. You could see the horizon wherever you looked.

  Strell passed a house where two poorly-dressed children hung by the door, watching him go by, whispering behind their hands. His jaw clenched. He had almost forgotten what the foothills were like. His six years at the coast had been a blessing. Everyone looked different there. No one could tell where you came from until you opened your mouth. Even then they were eager for news. The coastal people might be superstitious and odd, but they had accepted him as an equal, and he wasn’t eager to slip back into old patterns and expected behaviors.

  Strell tugged his pack up, his anger welling. He’d better remember to watch his step. Market day or not, he wasn’t welcome. The sooner he got to his plains, the better.

  A heavily loaded wagon stopped short before him, and Strell slipped as he tried not to run into it. He barely caught himself before going down in the mud. Three foothills girls, pallid and white, giggled behind their hands. Face burning, Strell adjusted his pack. Their clothes would be used for rags in the plains. But they were well-fed, and Strell felt a flush of jealousy. He had never gone hungry as a boy, but not many in the plains could say that.

  The sounds of market became louder, and Strell’s anger slowly diminished, pushed aside by feelings of remembrance. He had grown up taking his father’s wares to the foothills, and anticipation brought back fond memories. They never left empty-handed, trading their bowls and clay tiles for wheat and fruit. After an exceptionally good market, they might even manage to buy potatoes. Strell hesitated as he passed the last house bordering the open field at the center of the village. He’d been alone for so long, it was odd to be among the press of people again.

  “Strell?” called a deep voice, thundering over the babble of commerce. “Strell Hirdune? By the Navigator’s Wolves, it is you!”

  Strell half turned, a grin breaking over him as he spotted a familiar face, head and shoulders over most of the crowd. It was Petard, the only man who had ever come close to besting his father’s skills at the potter’s wheel.

  “Get out of my way, ash-covered, know-nothing, dirt scratchers!” the man bellowed, elbowing the shorter farmers out of his path. “Strell Hirdune. I’d recognize that bent nose anywhere.”

  Strell clasped the man’s arm as he came close, only to find himself yanked off his feet and into a back-slapping, jaw-snapping hug. Petard smelled like clay chips and glaze, and Strell felt his tension ease as he breathed in the familiar scent.

  “I never thought to see you here!” Petard said as he put Strell at arm’s length. His wind-scarred face wrinkled in pleasure. “World traveler on your way back to civilization, eh?”

  Strell rubbed his jaw, wondering if all his teeth were still there. “Something like that. What brings you this deep into the foothills? Isn’t this west for you?”

  Petard draped an arm over Strell’s shoulders and began leading him through the crowd, ignoring the farmers’ muttered curses and ill looks. “The trade routes have shifted. Moving west, following the outskirts of the foothills instead of the oases. I have to drag my aching bones halfway to the mountains now to get a good price.”

  “It’s good to see you,” Strell said. “Somehow I’m not surprised the first face I recognize in six years would be yours.”

  Petard pointed out the wagon laced with his silk banners of yellow and black. A young woman was tending the front, showing a couple a nest of bowls. Strell could see they were second-rate even from here, but the farmer’s wife was flushed in excitement at the coming purchase. Strell smiled. Some things never change. Why show the best when common will do?

  “You were gone so long, everyone thought you’d taken up with a coastal beauty to make fishing pots the rest of your days,” Petard said, motioning him to come around to the back.

  Strell followed him, eyeing Petard’s daughter with more than a casual interest. She was tall and dusky, a true plainswoman, something he hadn’t seen in far too long. Her thick black hair nearly reached the small of her back. Petard must be doing well, he thought, to allow her to keep it that long. Their eyes met as he slipped behind the wagon, and she flushed demurely. “No,” he said absently. “I’m back. For good.” He hesitated. “Is that Matalina?”

  Petard’s dark eyes glinted. “Matalina!” he shouted over the wagon.

  Strell’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “Let her close the deal,” he said in earnest, knowing how precious a customer was.

  “Matalina!” Petard cried again. “Tell them to come back tomorrow. It’s almost time to leave for the night. Strell Hirdune is here. Back from the coast—for good. Bring the water.” He turned to Strell, making him sit down on the largest, rolled-up rug beside the small fire. “You remember Matalina, eh?” he said, bursting with eagerness. He brought two cups from the wagon and handed one to Strell.

  Strell looked it over with a critical eye as Petard made a show of settling himself across the fire. He adjusted the thin robe he wore over his trousers, clearly giving Strell time to evaluate his skill. Here in Strell’s hands was Petard’s true level of crafting, and Strell was impressed. The canny plainsman had always given his father a run for the more affluent customers. This, apparently, hadn’t changed either.

  There was a soft noise at his elbow and Strell started, surprised to find Matalina behind him. She had a waterskin in her thin hands. Her even, white teeth made a startling contrast with her dark skin, and Strell suddenly found himself flustered. “Thank you,” he said softly as she filled his cup. She was dark, modest, and exotic after the coastal women.

  “Go. Go on,” Petard grunted, shooing her away. Strell watched her slip around the end of the wagon.

  “Eh?” Petard half whispered, pulling Strell’s attention back to the fire. “You like her? Me too. She works harder than any three sons I could’ve had.” He shifted closer, warming his hands. “You knew I had no sons, Strell?”

  Strell froze, a whisper of alarm drifting through him. “Um, yes. I’m sorry.”

  “No need!” Petard shouted. “I have my daughters.” Pride filled his eyes as he looked over the wagon to see Matalina helping another customer. They had a basket of apples, and Petard’s expression grew shrewd. Strell watched him force his eyes away from the infant deal being struck and back to him.

  “Don’t mind those rags she has on,” Petard said softly. “I make her wear them here, or the dirt scratchers would raise the price of corn.”

  “Petard,” Strell said awkwardly. “How is my family?”

  The tall man abruptly stood. “Water? Why are we drinking water? We should be drinking wine. A Hirdune returns to us. We should drink wine!”

  Strell covered his cup with his
hand. “Petard. My family? Are they here in the foothills?”

  Petard sank down, resting the wineskin between his knees. He ran a hand under his nose.

  “Petard?” Strell said, suddenly afraid. What if that mad woman at that farm was right?

  “I’m sorry, lad,” Petard said, his voice softer than Strell had ever heard it. “I don’t know how to tell you this.”

  Strell’s breath hissed in over his teeth. A dog barked the next wagon over, and a child laughed. His mind went to nothing, and he heard himself say, “She said there was a flood.”

  “She?” Petard fixed him with sharp look. “You already know?”

  “A woman on a farm told me. I didn’t believe her.”

  Petard’s head bobbed. “I wouldn’t have either. But she told you the truth. There was a flood to rival the Tears of the Navigator. Scoured the sand down to stone in places. The first oasis was destroyed. That’s what shifted the trade routes.”

  Strell swallowed hard. He was cold, and he set his cup down before Petard could see the trembling of his fingers. His breath came faster. “She said they got caught in it.” He looked up, desperate to see a sign of hope in Petard’s eyes, but there was only sympathy. The tall man reached around the fire with his foot and tipped Strell’s cup over. Water seeped into the ground. Silently Petard filled the cup with wine.

  Almost frantic, Strell whispered, “My family?”

  Petard’s eyes closed in a long blink. “Bless them who join the Navigator suddenly, for they bring him the purest thoughts.”

  Gasping, Strell hunched into himself, closing his eyes and raising a hand to his head. No, he thought, feeling ill and light-headed. They can’t be gone. It had to be a mistake.

  He found himself on his feet, accidentally kicking over his wine. The red stained the soil, covering the clean spill of water. “I have to go,” he heard himself say.