Eyes in the Water

by Monica Lee Kennedy

  By early morning, Arman sat warming his transparent hands in the home of Farler, Veto’s chief, while surveying him with a careful eye. Farler was a short, middle-aged man, with black hair salting at his temples and beard. His face was severe and pensive, and his dark blue eyes spoke of a sharp intellect.

  The house itself was small and worn, and people buzzed through as if drones moving in and out of a hive. Arman did not care for the intrusions; influence was limited with such interruption. Farler seemed not to mind in the least and met each villager with a nod or a word as was needed. They all regarded him with respect, listening attentively and leaving once dismissed.

  Eventually, Farler turned to Arman, peering at the half-visible juile. “Why are you here?” he asked quietly. His voice was tense, and it was evident that the chief wished away this strange visitor. He had enough to face at present.

  Arman dipped his chin in civil greeting and locked eyes with Farler. Arman again perceived Farler’s quick mind but saw the fear residing in his eyes as well. “I am Arman. I am passing through.”

  “Then pass,” he said curtly.

  The juile ignored him. “I go to Taro to see what has happened.”

  Farler’s navy eyes narrowed, but the man did not speak.

  “Will you come with me?”

  A new spark glinted in the gaze; he was amused at the juile’s persistence. “You are mad,” Farler replied.

  Arman flicked his long fingers as way of a shrug. “I will not dispute that in either direction.” His face was solemn. “But I would argue that your presence is needed there.”

  “Mad,” Farler repeated, shaking his head. Any hint of diversion had been wiped cleanly from his face.

  “Rumors have spread as far as Limbartina. Accusations are heavy.”

  “We care not. Cona can direct her village as she wants, but none from here have traveled her way in moons.”

  “Then come and explain as much,” Arman persisted.

  “I’ll do nothing. As I have done nothing,” he growled.

  Arman shook his head and straightened. The intensity of his brow made his face mismatched and unattractive. “I have not said you have. But you are a leader,” the juile said with fervor. “And this situation has the beginning ripples of something ghastly. Of war, possibly.” Arman’s hands went out in a gesture of appeal, but his expression remained determined. “You know better than most that leading is rarely about yourself. Think of your people… I have heard good things about you. Please. Think of the future and the lives in your power.”

  Farler’s face remained set, but Arman saw the sharp eyes working.

  “Why would you not?” he asked.

  Farler turned his back to the juile. “I have heard enough. You many go.” His voice was hushed but final.

  Arman nodded and left without another word. He hastened from the small village and raced southeast through the barren cold, eager to make Taro before afternoon.

  ~

  The land around Taro was as bleak as that of Veto. It was a barren landscape where harsh weather battered crops and homes and lives. It was a wonder that any beings were able to sustain themselves this far east. The village itself was a diminutive community, boasting of no more than forty people, and the few dilapidated houses present huddled beside a small rise to help protect them from the bitter eastern gusts.

  Arman twice caught a faint whistling sound, apparently a signal warning the people of his approaching presence, and proceeded cautiously. He was visible, and he knew that the village could not help but be uneasy after the recent events.

  The village was composed of only about fifteen buildings. A few somber people lingered around the town center, speaking in subdued voices and looking up speculatively to the gray skies, but the area was largely deserted.

  In the central courtyard, eleven bodies had been arranged in a straight row. The drab daily wear of the corpses had not been changed, but starkly white sheets rested under each body. He had heard of this eastern custom. The body would be carried in the sheet, and then the cloth would be wrapped around it like a cocoon, as if to provide a safe haven for sleep and repose.

  A few villagers glanced curiously at him but just as simply returned to their quiet stances and hushed conversations. Arman hoped that the burial rites would provide reason enough for his strange presence. Perhaps if he was presumed to be an old friend, here to bid farewell to the dead, there would be less chance of interference or trouble for him.

  He approached the dead, slowing as the details around him rushed upon his senses. The volume of white linen before the dismal wooden homes was a shock to the eyes, the hovering scent of burn was scoring to the nose. He swallowed and sought to not miss anything.

  The juile knelt, his robes meeting the cold red earth. The motionless woman before him was past her prime but still should have had many orbits left to live. Her skin had darkened in patches, as though only parts of her had been roasted from the inside out. Her features were fine—even with the odd discoloration, he could see how lovely she had once been. The juile gently touched her cool cheek.

  He sighed, unsure what to think, and stroked the woman’s long silver hair. Clumps of it came away from her head, and he let the soft tresses fall from his palm.

  “May death’s reigns only lead you to greater heights, my lady,” Arman whispered softly.

  He stood and glanced at each of the bodies in turn, memorizing their features and garb. They appeared to be typical fever victims, but every detail must be retained in his mind to dissect later, when he had gained additional knowledge.

  Arman raised his eyes next to the houses. They were a handful of beaten wooden structures with small windows, each as nondescript as the last. Fortunately, the three he sought had sashes of mourning tied to the lintels. The dull black sashes, as large as flags, extended from the tops of the entryways to the hard, dark soil and waved about ominously in the wind.

  He stepped cautiously forward and entered the first house. The juile’s face tightened at the picture. The room was well used but stamped with the threadbare quality of poverty. In the corner, a paltry cooking fire had once known life. Two blankets were stretched flat on the packed dirt floor, indicating where the inhabitants had slept, and a basket with an onion and two potatoes rested by the entryway.

  He strode the meager space, examining and noting everything. As he returned to the exit, he finally saw it. A small bowl with a homemade orange pigment—now cracked and dried—sat on the ground, resting behind the open door. He swung the door closed and saw the letters that had been crudely painted on it.

  VETO, it read.

  Arman ran his finger slowly across the letters, perturbed. He allowed one last glance around before striding out into the cloudy afternoon to investigate the other two houses. He found the same markings on the back of both doors. The handwriting was unique, but the words and color were as one.

  Arman’s lips pinched in severity. Veto did not do this.

  He contemplated the possibilities and disliked them all.

  Outside, a crowd had begun to assemble. They were the families of the village, rough and careworn, and although still decked in what was likely their only clothing, each had a silver scarf knotted at the arm, just below the shoulder: the personal mourning sashes. The strips of cloth were clean and pressed. They showed little sign of use—the fabric glistened like satin, and the dye was fresh and unfaded. They provided a striking contrast to the worn quality of everything else in the village.

  Arman lingered at the edge of the gathering, deliberating as to his next move. Finally, he stepped forward to join the mourners, standing near the front. Several eyed him carefully, but none felt drawn to converse. He hoped to at least overhear their thoughts.

  Several more villagers appeared, and the group stomped their feet to keep warm. Puffs of cloud rose softly from each mouth and still they waited, buffeted by the wind and staring up at the forbidding sky. Finally, a middle-aged woman, her face gaunt with grief, arri
ved. Her long brown hair was tied back in a simple tail, and her eyes were gray and misty. She strode with authority, despite her evident distress, and all watched her with deference.

  Arman surveyed her quietly, taking a moment to let his mind align the facts, and exhaled softly as sense filled him. It was evident that this woman was the chieftess Cona, and more, Cona had the same oval face, the same even cheek bones, the same straight-edged nose as one of the sheeted women taken by the fever. The dark-haired woman had been a relative, perhaps a sister.

  Cona nodded somberly to a few and took her place in silence beside the rest. With the addition of her presence, an air of readiness rustled through the assembly. The villagers directed their gazes to the still bodies and waited silently, as if in a trance.

  Arman had not planned to, but touched by the grief of the people, he slipped out his fentatta and drew it to his lips. The tiny instrument sang out with its clear voice, and every eye swerved in surprise to ponder him. He did not flinch at their staring but continued on, allowing his compassion to pour out—for those living and dead. The notes pierced the cold air in a sweet melody, and as the song swelled, the villagers directed their gazes again to the deceased. Many wept quietly. The tender strain wrapped them all, echoing the sorrow that reverberated in every heart.

  In the blink of an eye, the moment was ripped apart. A shrill whistle of warning rang down from the rise, and every back stiffened. Arman pulled his pipe from his lips and observed the crowd. Fear and anger mingled upon their hard faces. The air swam with tense conversation.

  “Why would they come here?” a woman mumbled.

  “Veto’s back to attack again,” cried another voice.

  “How many?”

  Arman felt his limbs flood with a tight energy but did not move. He needed to see what would transpire.

  Glances curved naturally to Cona, and eventually she stepped forward, holding out her hands. Despite the rising angst in their eyes, the villagers hushed.

  “This is nonsense,” she said hoarsely. “I said it before, and I say it finally. Veto did not do this.” She slowly met the eyes of each as she glanced amongst her people. “I know what it looks like, but that could never be. Do not ruin our chance to honor those we love.” The corners of the woman’s lips turned down at this, and she looked old and weary. “For we have all lost.”

  Whispers softly floated amongst the crowd.

  “You’re sure?” a younger woman asked timidly. “They are coming.”

  “I don’t care if Veto comes or not. It does not matter.” She swiped her hand down in a gesture of finality. “They did nothing.”

  Arman’s muscles loosened as he surveyed the people. The anger that had stiffened each spine had dissipated. Grief marked the figures once more. Backs leaned forward and heads bent. The group returned to its silent vigil.

  It was twenty minutes before Veto arrived. They came as a whole, all thirty-eight of them, marching in silence with grim faces. Each arm was also ringed with a pristine scarf, these ones dyed a soft sky blue.

  Farler was among them, neither in the lead nor in tow, but as the group approached, he advanced to the front. The new arrivals paused several steps behind the Taro villagers, standing as a silent mass awaiting direction. Farler strode toward the chieftess. At first his face was grim and collected, but at the sight of her grief, his features gentled. He placed his hand delicately upon her forearm.

  “Cona,” he said, and then paused. He inhaled slowly as his emotions began to build. “I am so sorry. For you. For all of Taro.” The man closed his eyes, pressing his lips together as he grappled for composure. It was a long, quiet moment. When he opened them, he met her gaze beseechingly. “May I?”

  Indecision clouded her face.

  “She would not have me in life. But please don’t deny me this now.” His face was humble and desperate.

  Cona nodded, her tears now streaming unchecked, and opened a palm towards the bodies upon the white sheets.

  “Thank you,” he said softly. He made as if to step forward, but then checked his stride and placed the basket he carried at Cona’s feet.

  She looked confusedly at him, but Farler did not respond save by placing the item clenched in his hand—a single potato—in the center of the empty basket.

  Farler advanced toward the bodies, his eyes searching until they rested on a woman with dark brown hair, the woman resembling Cona. His frame slumped, and he approached slowly, finally kneeling at her side. His rough hands smoothed the tresses at her temples, and he choked with grief as the hair fell from her head like ash. He bent forward and kissed her cheek, whispering words only for her.

  The villagers of Veto then followed in a line, placing their gifts of food in the basket at Cona’s feet and stepping to stand among the people of Taro until the group was an indecipherable mix. Cona hardly noticed their movements, for her eyes were fixed upon Farler and the woman. Glistening tears streaked her face.

  Arman resumed the working of his fentatta, and the song held everyone in its sorrowful magic. The pain was palpable, but the unity and truth of the moment made even the bitterness bearable. Arman himself experienced the power of it, and gratitude spilled through him. These villages would know peace; both leaders carried wisdom in the face of disaster and agony. He played for several minutes before tapering the sad tune to a close. A sigh parted many lips when the pipe was finally tucked away.

  Farler again kissed the dead woman’s cheek and, with a swift maneuver of the wrist, freed his arm from his sky blue sash. The fabric flapped about in the wind as he secured it instead upon the woman’s arm.

  As Farler stood and turned, his gaze fell upon Arman. Grief had sharpened the lines and edges of the chief’s face, and he met the juile’s gaze with weary resignation. And then, as simply as he came, he left. He nodded once to Cona and set his feet back toward Veto. The other villagers remained as they were, although some turned their heads to watch their chief depart.

  Cona pressed her lips together in contemplation as she watched the man leave. She glanced down at the basket and wiped her face clean with open palms. Her features turned decisive in a breath.

  “Farler!” Cona called. Her voice was still hoarse with emotion.

  He paused and glanced back, his face long.

  She strode to him, and while Arman could not hear, he observed the two in hushed conversation. Cona extended her arm, and the two touched hands briefly. Farler’s face softened, and he nodded. Farler again pointed his steps toward home. Cona returned to the gathering, grief raw upon her face.

  She trod heavily to the front of the crowd, standing close to the brunette’s body, and faced the people. She made no move to speak for a time, and the only sound that filled the space was the howling of the wind and the flapping of the scarves as they danced about like flags from the villagers’ arms.

  “Thank you,” she began. Her voice was weary, as though each word taxed her sorely. “Thank you for coming, Veto. I know, we all know, that your town is innocent.” She swallowed. “This was a tragedy for us all. Thank you for honoring our dead. Thank you.”

  Cona stooped and kissed the cheek of her dead relative, resting her hand softly upon Farler’s sash for a quiet moment. She collected a section of sheet with tight fists and, at this signal, all stepped forward to grip the white edges and raise the bodies. Arman joined, assisting a small party hefting up a young man, and the various groups bore their loads to the south of the village.

  The walk was slow and strenuous. Despite the numerous hands, the corpses were bulky and the sheets difficult to manage. Eventually, they all arrived at a fence-encircled field. They entered the gate, one group and sheet at a time, and ushered past stones and markers until they arrived at the upturned dark soil of the freshly dug graves.

  Arman, with his group of six others, ringed the grave and slowly lowered the young man to its base. An older man, assumedly his father, gingerly climbed down beside the corpse to wrap him carefully in the extra folds of the s
heet. The youth’s blackened face disappeared in the sea of white.

  Sobbing filled the air, and the sharp scent of the iron-rich soil saturated Arman’s nostrils.

  When all the bodies were laid and wrapped, the people stood silently for several moments, quiet in thought and grief.

  Finally, their attention turned to the chieftess.

  She swallowed, but then spoke clearly above the wind. “Your lives were bountiful. May death’s reins only lead you to greater heights.”

  “To greater heights,” they all intoned and set to burying their loved ones.

  ~

  Afterward, the villagers made ready to disperse. Arman excused himself quietly. While several noted his departure, none commented. The mysterious juile had earned their respect; he had honored their dead, and his music still echoed in their souls.

  Striding swiftly, Arman burned through the ground of Callup. His mind churned through the unsettling events of Taro, but he could not linger. Perception and action were his only weapons. By nightfall he had passed into Granoile.

  ~

  It took two more days of demanding movement before Arman caught sight of Caladia. He had paused briefly in the northern towns, requesting representatives to attend the council, but his mind had remained staunchly focused upon the frawnish. He sighed as he eased his aching limbs down the face of the final dune and trekked the last matroles to town.

  A frawnish scout swooped through the skies above him, and although he was invisible, Arman knew it would not take long for the frawnite’s sharp eyes to spy his pedasse trailing his progress like an arrow. The scout did see, but instead of lighting down, the ebony-winged creature circled and coasted back to Caladia. Arman pondered its meaning. Not long after, a figure he knew well swept past the afternoon clouds and careened down to the earth. Arman smiled as she righted herself with a flick and landed lightly before him.

  “Arista,” he said warmly.

  “Arman,” she replied. She offered a strained smile, but her eyes were joyless. “I pray it will be bountiful,” Arman said with a low bow, although she only heard the movement.