by Dawn Cook
Petard rose, his face alarmed. “Whoa, Strell,” he said gently. “I know it’s soon, and I know you’re raw, but don’t run off.”
“I have to go see!” Strell cried, near to panic.
A strong hand gripped his arm. “There’s nothing to see. Stay until you sort yourself out. I’ve plenty of food. I know your work. You have a place with us as long as you want.”
Strell backed up, panic making his legs weak. How could they be gone and he not know it? He looked at the press of people, familiar, yet made strange by the years. It felt wrong. He was wrong. They all were wrong. He had to go. He never should have come back. Come back to find—this.
“Strell!” The grip was on his shoulder now, and Strell stumbled back, afraid they would force him to stay. “Wait, boy. You can’t walk into the desert.”
“I have to see,” he said raggedly.
Petard shook his head. “Spare yourself, lad. The canyon was scrubbed clean to rock. There’s nothing left to go back to. I know. As soon as I heard, I went to look for anything of value that might have been spared.” He winced. “I meant, anyone spared,” he finished lamely.
Anger flared, an easy outlet for his pain. “Scavengers!” Strell spat. “You could hardly wait until my father was dead before ransacking his shops.”
Petard’s face went red, the scars from sand-burn showing white against his thick skin. “Grief has made you careless, boy,” he said darkly. “Watch your tongue. I loved your father as much as any man. He had a skill. Some say he gave it to you.”
Strell turned to face the crowd, not seeing it.
“The desert took them, Strell. They’re gone.”
Strell spun, looking dazedly into Petard’s eyes. They were as dark as his father’s. “Father,” he whispered, a stab of loss nearly doubling him over.
“Stay with us,” Petard said softly. Matalina was behind him looking sad and welcoming. Her hair was as long and thick as his sisters’. Strell tore his eyes from her. His sisters, drowned in the flood while he dallied on the coast. They were buried in the sand like animals without mourning, without notice. There had been no fire to light their way, no flames to free their spirit.
“Where will you pitch your tent in the cold season?” Petard asked persuasively. “Who but another potter will even consider to take you in, a man not of their blood?”
“No one,” Strell whispered, knowing it was true. Without his family, he was dead.
Petard took a breath. “I have no sons. Stay with me. I will give you my name.”
Strell’s head came up. His pulse pounded. “No!” he gasped, then caught himself. “No,” he said again, softer. His name. The desert had taken his family. Now it wanted his name.
Petard drew back, clearly affronted. Matalina shifted nervously. Though Strell knew he was being inexcusably discourteous by refusing Petard outright, grief allowed no other answer. A part of him marveled at Petard’s foresight. Such a trade would save both of them. Strell needed the support of a family to survive in the desert, and Petard needed a male heir to keep his family from dying out. To say yes would save both of them. His cold, logical plains sense said take it, but his plainsman’s heart refused. They wanted to take his name.
“No?” the tall man said shortly, his anger held in a tight check.
“I won’t return to the plains,” Strell breathed, unable to focus on either of them. To see the shadows of his mother and father everywhere. The desert took his family. How could he return to it? He hated the sand, the flatness, everything.
“Well, you can’t stay in the foothills,” Petard said sharply.
“They will be on you before you can starve.” The man’s eyes softened. “See reason, lad. It’s a good trade for both of us.”
Strell slumped down to sit upon the ground, his head in his hands. How could they all be dead and he not know it?
There was a small scuff as Petard moved, laying a fatherly hand on Strell’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, lad. perhaps there was a better way to tell you, but I don’t know it.” He shifted awkwardly. “I’ll look past your hasty words because of your grief. It’s almost dark. Come with us to the edge of this smelly little dirt-square of a village for the night. Think my offer over. Give me your answer tomorrow.”
Strell said nothing, sinking deeper into himself. Thinking it over would lead to him saying yes as logic overcame heartache. He would accept a half-life with Matalina and Petard. He would lower himself to live a lie. He would say yes. He didn’t want to.
Strell felt a faint stir of purpose flicker among the shadows of his pain. If he couldn’t survive in the foothills, he would return to the coast. Strell knew Petard would disagree. The proud man would probably knock Strell unconscious and forcibly take him back to the plains. But there was nothing left for him there, his future buried in the sand. “Give me a moment,” Strell whispered, knowing Petard wouldn’t leave him unless thinking Strell would accept his offer.
As expected, that seemed to satisfy the tall plainsman as he gestured for his daughter to tighten the harness of the horses. “But, Papa . . .” Matalina whispered, her smooth, dusky voice bringing memories of his sisters crashing down upon him.
“Let him be,” Petard said gruffly. “He needs to get drunk or in a fight, or both. Either way, I don’t want to be there. We’ll find him in the morning.”
Strell sat like a stone as they packed up and left, never acknowledging their good-byes. He stifled a tremor as Matalina laid a gentle hand upon his shoulder in parting. A small part of him realized he was no longer in the shadow of the wagon. Slowly the fire died from neglect. The dew rose, and it grew quiet as the square emptied. The comforting sounds of blowing horses and jangling harnesses subsided.
He stirred as the sky darkened and the children were called to supper. Petard’s offer was frighteningly generous, but even if he accepted it, he would still be an outsider. They weren’t his kin. It would drive him mad, the almost belonging but not quite. He had to return to the coast. He knew people there, knew how to fit in. It wouldn’t be home, only a place to be. But it was dangerously late to start back.
Strell stood and hiked his pack up. But now he had a map. With it, he might traverse the passes before the mountains were locked down with snow. He had traded better than he could have guessed, exchanging a bit of silk for his sanity.
He slunk through the streets, the only light and noise coming from the open door and windows of a tavern. The houses became fewer and finally disappeared altogether. Stumbling in a night with an unrisen moon, he traveled the way he had come, lost in a haze, trying to outdistance his grief. He blindly followed the path he had taken out of the mountains, as if going back could erase what he found at its end.
5
Alissa’s pack slid to the ground with a muffled thump. She soon followed, collapsing into an exhausted heap on the hard, thin soil that even the wind deemed too poor to claim. The evening wind whistled eerily through the pass up ahead. Now that she had stopped moving, the icy chill bit deep, drying her sweat unsettlingly fast to a cold whisper upon her forehead. It wouldn’t be long before the sun was gone. She would have to hurry to set up camp. But she couldn’t bring herself to move for anything right now.
Put bluntly, today had been an ordeal of self-torture. At dawn by her lakeside camp, she had come to the realization that she was still going too slow. Her mother claimed the Hold was a month in, but that was at her papa’s pace, not Alissa’s. And he knew the way. Looking over her progress, it seemed as though she was on a pleasure jaunt, not a desperate bid to find a mythical fortress before the mountains locked down with snow. And so today she had halved her breaks and quadrupled her aches.
Alissa lolled her head back in an effort to ease the soreness in her shoulders. Shooting pains raced down her neck as she gazed desperately up. The evening’s first star stared accusingly back at her. With an ill-mannered groan, she got to her feet, promising herself a warm dinner and maybe a wash.
The stiffness began to settle
in earnest as she squinted down the slope at Talon. The small bird was quite a ways back, fidgeting in indecision on the nearest tree. Grass was scarce in this windswept spot, much less trees. But there was a pile of half-rotted wood stacked up by a past traveler, and because Alissa knew herself to be basically lazy, this was where they would camp whether Talon liked it or not.
Muscles protesting, she knelt to light the fire. It leaped into existence with the wind’s help, snapping at the shadows until they fled into the night, consuming the dry wood a bit too fast for her taste. Alissa looked for Talon. She hadn’t moved. “Come on, Talon!” she coaxed at the top of her lungs. Fire or not, she thought, it was cold, and she still had the water to fetch. But Talon only called mournfully, fluttering her wings and refusing to budge. “Silly bird,” she grumbled, knowing Talon didn’t like being in the open, but Alissa was too cold to care.
Her lips pursed in worry as she glanced up at the darkening sky, then to the peaks tall about her. The sun was gone, but it still shone on the higher reaches, and they glowed an unreal pink and red. She dropped her eyes to the small, miserable shadow that was Talon, silhouetted against the sky. “Come on,” she called again. “You can sit on the firewood.”
She gave the pile a tiny kick, stumbling as her foot broke through the dry-rotted wood. Grubs and other wigglies fell out as she yanked her foot free with a shudder, shaking it violently to get them off her.
“It’s just a bunch of crawlies!” she shouted, but Talon didn’t move. “Fine!” Alissa yelled. “Be that way. Stay there all night for all I care!” Grabbing her water sack, she stalked out of camp, picking her way through the scree to the stream she had found earlier. It wasn’t far, but it was at the bottom of a steep ravine.
The thin light had faded to a bare hint as Alissa found the lip of the drop-off and looked uneasily over the edge. She could hear the water bubbling as it slipped through its rocky bed, and the last of the light reflected off its shimmering skin to reveal the bottom of the gully. The short walk had done nothing to cool her temper, and she eyed the sheer descent darkly. It hadn’t looked that bad earlier.
Alissa paced the edge looking for an easier way down. Her eyes strayed to the darkening heavens, wondering if it was worth all this. “Hot tea,” she muttered, gathering her scattered resolve. “Warm bath.”
Her foot skidded on the loose gravel. Arms swinging wildly, she struggled to catch her balance. With a muffled shriek, she toppled over the edge of the ravine to roll and tumble all the way to the bottom, finding it with a final, terrifying thud. Stunned, she lay in a disheveled heap as a sprinkling of small stones and pebbles showered down. There was a tiny, ridiculous clink as the last rock found its new resting place.
Silence. The gurgling of the stream seemed to rise loud. “Aw, Blood and Ash,” she gasped, gingerly shifting her elbow out of the freezing water. All her hurts clamored for attention. “Ow,” she moaned. “Ow, ow, ow . . .” she continued, unable to think of anything more creative. Easing herself up in stages, she rubbed her raw hands and took stock of the situation. Her ankle was the worst, and she tentatively felt it through her boot. Dull throbs exploded into shimmering waves of white-hot knives. Alissa’s breath whooshed out in a sharp surprise. “Wolves,” she gasped through clenched teeth as soon as she found her breath. But for all the pain, she didn’t think her ankle was broken. The rest of her was sore, but not bad considering she had just fallen three body-lengths.
Alissa slowly levered herself up, keeping all her weight off her right foot. Swallowing hard, she lowered it. Pain lanced through her ankle, hammering spikes all the way to her skull. A feeling of tight nausea was close behind. Shocked, Alissa clutched her middle, struggling to sit and keep her noon meal down all at the same time.
“Oh! Wolves take you!” she shouted, angrily wiping away the tears the pain had drawn out. She sat with her head on one knee, taking shallow breaths until the pain lessened. How, she thought miserably, was she going to get out? Maybe she could crawl up using only one foot?
The stone was cold, and it seemed to bite deep into her hands as she searched the rock face for a handhold in the dark. Pebbles and dirt slipped and rattled from under her to vanish soundlessly into the water. Her foot hit an outcrop, and Alissa’s eyes widened as she struggled not to cry out.
Admitting only a temporary defeat, she sat with her back to the wall of the ravine and began to shiver in earnest. She savagely pulled her hat tight over her ears and clutched her arms about her legs, cursing herself for having allowed her temper to make her careless. The thought of her fire, probably out from neglect, made her even more wretched. She was stuck at the bottom of the proverbial well.
6
Gone. Everything was gone. The house—gone. His father’s shops—gone. His family—gone. The words hammered at Strell with each step. The previous night he had walked until fatigue brought him down like a beggar by the side of the road. He had woken at daybreak to the creak of a passing wagon and a half-rotted beet hitting him. Too miserable to eat, he had turned west, heading up the mountain before the birds finished greeting the day. Rema’s farm was nearly a day behind him now. He gave her fields a wide berth, afraid if she saw him, she might try to reason with him. He didn’t want to be reasonable.
The day passed in a blur of motion. Never stopping to eat or rest, he stoically hiked upward, careful to keep his mind blank and his thoughts empty, trying to outdistance his pain. To face the truth when the sun was in the sky was too much to ask.
Only now as the dusk fell and the chill wind swept down the mountains did he shake his heartache enough to notice his surroundings. It was past his usual time to make camp, but the long twilight the mountains were afflicted with gave him enough light to make his way. So he continued, finding a false peace in motion. If he stopped, his memories would catch him.
Strell forced his way uphill through the dusk, all but oblivious to the sharp sting of the brambles. He thought he was on the same trail he had come down on. According to Rema’s map, a good portion of the trails through the range began from the cliff he had scaled yesterday. If he could find it again, he would be a long way to starting a successful return trip.
The brush suddenly thickened before him, and Strell paused, putting a hand to his side, his lungs laboring. His stomach hurt. It couldn’t be hunger. How could he be hungry when his family was dead. They had been dead for five years.
Strell closed his eyes and clenched his fists, savagely pushing his grief aside. He wouldn’t think. He couldn’t afford it. With a determined abruptness, he forced his way through the low scrub to find his path fall to nothing. He had found the bluff.
His feet stopped of their own accord, halted by the lack of clear direction. Trembling, he stood in the cool breath of the night and looked out over the valley with vacant eyes. Exhaustion took him, and he sank down beside the ash-covered leavings of another’s fire. It remained unlit; his hands lay still. Rebelling against the abuse, his body refused to move, and so his mind took over, racing, running, struggling to find a way to make sense of it. He began to shake from exertion and lack of food, and still he did nothing as the stars turned and the dew rose.
A sudden gust blew the ash from the wood below, laying open the black, twisted remnants of a tree. He shuddered at its sight, and a glimmer of awareness crept back into him. Cocooned by the concealing dark, his thoughts returned to his brothers, buried in the sand like beasts. His eyes closed in pain as he remembered his sisters. The image of them lying in the earth where the flood carelessly dropped them was almost too much to endure. And then his parents, unwavering in their unusual conviction that Strell had to find his own way, although they would never say why. They were all gone. He should be punished for being alive when his family was dead.
Gritting his teeth, he tensed, struggling for control. His breath grew ragged and his fingers clenched with a white-knuckled strength. “Nooooo!” he howled into the night, pounding his fists into the earth. “It isn’t right! It can’t be tru
e,” he cried as a rush of unwelcome emotion burst forth. But he knew it was. His entire life was gone.
The crickets sang as Strell quieted, but he was too raw to find solace. Even the silvery, disturbing song of the wolves did little to stir him. They took up his lament when he faltered, filling the night with his pain for him. The beasts knew well the suffering of loss, found cold and alone in the quiet depths of winter, and he welcomed their grieving, elegant and refined in their feral honesty.
Strell huddled by the unlit fire, his arms wrapped tightly about his knees, alone in his thoughts, and now alone in the world. Fingering his pipe as if it were the only thing left that was real, he wondered which trail he should take in the morning. Glad for a distraction, Strell turned to his pack to find his map. A frown crossed his face as his fingers found something round and hard. It was an apple. Strell closed his eyes in misery. Matalina had probably put it there without her father’s knowledge. There was a wedge of cheese, too.
He set the apple aside, shocked to find his fingers trembling as he tried to light a fire in the ashes of the old. Perhaps he ought to eat whether he was hungry or not. Soon the new fire lit the bluff, and by its bright flickering, he slipped the copper ribbon from his map and shook the supple leather out. He ate Matalina’s apple as he squinted at the map to look over the possibilities.
Without willing them, his eyes went to find the canyon he had once called home. Mercifully, the map didn’t chart that far into the plains, and he pushed his sorrow aside. Next he looked for the X that marked Rema’s farm. Strell drew the map closer, squinting in the dim light. Next to the X was a tiny squiggle he didn’t recognize.
Strell listlessly glanced over the rest of the map and found that all the writing, if that’s what it was, was unfamiliar. The intricate forms didn’t even look like proper words, but they must be, situated like labels next to lakes and prominent peaks. Leaning close enough to the fire to warm his fingers, Strell studied the unusual characters, wondering what language it was.