---
That afternoon the school teacher made her way home to her small stone and wood planked house, and sighed in contentment at how perfect her life was. She enjoyed her students, loved her village, and adored her home.
For a woman as smart as she thought she was, that utter sense of satisfaction should have been a clear signal that things were about to change.
But people usually aren’t as clever as they hope they are, and the only thing she noticed as she walked up the stone steps of the front porch was her favorite rector coming down the road.
“Hogal Densal!” she called to him and paused before entering her house. “What brings you this way today?”
The old rector grinned and waggled his white eyebrows. “A proposal, Miss Mahrree!”
---
Eighty miles to the south stood the massive city of Idumea with its population of two hundred thousand. The seat of government resided near the center of it, with the headquarters of the Army of Idumea located a couple miles away at the new garrison.
From that garrison left the High General of Idumea, an appropriately imposing figure with a chest full of patches and medals that glinted in the sun as he rode his horse to the Administrator’s Headquarters. He travelled with only two lieutenants as guards, demonstrating to the people that scurried out of his way on the cobblestone roads that Idumea was so safe even the highest ranking officer in the world needed only minimal accompaniment.
The Administrative Headquarters had been finished the year before. It was a massive three-level edifice supported at the front by twenty-two white stone columns. For years King Oren tried to motivate his workers to complete the red and orange stone structure, but they failed to construct the pattern he had so carefully designed: burgundy stone winding through the orange rock background, as if an enormous pumpkin had sprouted red curling tendrils. When Mal took over he hired artisans—not laborers—to finish the project, and within three seasons the entire structure was completed. Eight moons later the interior was finished with highly polished stone floors and exquisitely appointed offices for each administrator and his aides.
But the High General felt that a large barn would have been more practical, and could have housed all the workers’ horses as well.
Up the wide white stone steps he strode, nodding once in warning to the young pages dressed in short red coats who hurriedly opened the heavy doors for him. Once one of them was a bit too slow, but now that his arm was finally healed he wasn’t ever going to make that same mistake again.
Without breaking his pace the High General marched through the broad and crowded hallway, dispersing citizens and a couple of red-jacketed administrators. He walked directly to the largest oak doors which again were promptly opened for him. Word traveled quickly among the pages. His lieutenants struggled to keep up as the general plowed through the waiting room where he never waited. With another nod to the records-keeping men sitting at the large desk, the High General headed straight for the open doors of the grandest office in the building where he finally stopped at the broad and highly polished desk.
The occupant was waiting, and had counted down in his head the moment the highest ranked soldier, acting as the aggressive wolf he was, would stand in front of him.
Still, he said casually, “High General, I believe you’re early.”
“Is that a problem, Mal?” the officer said, clearly not caring if it were. He pulled several folded parchments from his jacket pocket and handed them across the desk.
Chairman Mal, dressed in his bright red jacket with tails, and a white ruffled shirt that matched his ruffled white hair, took the documents and opened them. “So the last fort will be ready on time?”
“I have assurances from the captain in Edge it will be ready ahead of schedule, Chairman. Each new fort will be manned in the next three weeks.”
“Good. Excellent,” Mal nodded, but the High General didn’t move to leave. Something else was on his mind, and Mal knew what it was.
The High General turned part-way to his two assistants, made a slight motion with his hand, and the lieutenants left the grand office, shutting the door behind them.
Typical of the alpha wolf, Mal thought, sending away his pack so he could deal with the threat alone.
The general’s tolerant pretense vanished as he leaned on the desk. “Now, as for those unexpected ‘visitors’ to my office this morning . . .”
“It’s only three administrators, High General,” Chairman Mal said in a calming manner. “You know as well as I that the world still fears the power of the army. But this is a way to demonstrate that the army is working hand-in-hand with the Administrators. Three of them on the Command Board of the Army? Why, it’s a perfect balance!” Perhaps calming wasn’t the correct term; maybe goading.
“Balance?!” the general growled. “It used to be just General Cush and I, and with the inclusion of three administrators, I assure you there is NO balance! Get them OFF!”
Mal stretched his lips into a smile. “You and Cush are such large men, the two of you easily outweigh three slight administrators.”
The High General was not amused.
Mal nodded once. “You may add a colonel or a major, if you wish, to the Command Board.”
“Oh, how generous,” he sneered. “You’ve said the people still feared the power of the army, but maybe they should start fearing you. They may not see what you’re doing, but I do.”
“There was reason to fear the army in the past,” Mal intoned. “People have very long memories, General. You know that.”
“Especially when their memories are prolonged unnaturally by constant reminders,” the general scoffed. “What was that notice read at every school about the killing squads? We haven’t had killing squads since my father’s time, since Querul the Third!”
Mal held open his hands. “Merely reminders of how much better their lives are now that the Administrators are in charge.”
“You’re tainting the image of the army to do so.” The High General’s low voice rumbled like thunder. “My father and I changed every aspect of it to reject the abuses of the Queruls, but you continue to make it sound as if the army is to still be feared.”
Mal’s pacifying demeanor fell away. “Tell me, General—what’s not to fear about ten thousand men armed with swords and long knives, and the knowledge of how to use them?”
“Use them to protect the world, not destroy it! My soldiers are disciplined and controlled. There’s great comfort in that, not fear, especially now.”
Mal squinted. “You sound worried, High General.”
“Not worried,” he said solidly, “just ready. As should be everyone in the world. Tell them, Nicko, what I learned from that spy. They’re coming in numbers and with plans we’ve never before encountered. The people have to know they can trust the army to protect them.”
“We don’t know that, General. All we have to go on is what your captured spy alleges. How can we be sure he’s telling the truth?”
The High General folded his arms. “I spent four days on him, Nicko. No man has ever held out longer than two days before. This was one determined, impressively well-trained Guarder. And when he finally broke, he confessed all he knew. Fortunately for him, they didn’t tell him that much. They’ve been quiet for years, and now it’s obvious why: they’ve changed their tactics, their training . . . maybe everything they do. We must have the citizens trusting the army, or we may have a disaster coming.”
“Impressively trained, you say?” Mal said, his eyes twinkling slightly.
The High General missed it. “My men must win over the hearts and minds of the people before the Guarders ever strike. We must be able to work together, or you might see your world crumble. And then those that remain will be as eager to depose you as they were Oren.”
“You best hope the Guarders are as fearsome as you believe they are,” Mal said with quiet ferocity. “Otherwise I would never tolerate this kind of disrespect from you.”
Mal clenched his fist, but knew his use of it would only amuse the condescending officer. Mal hadn’t been able to make a move without the nosing about of the High General, his snide remarks and his pointing out the faults and drawbacks to Mal’s plans. While he wasn’t always right, he was frequently enough to annoy.
Mal answered with a chilling calm. “High General, three administrators will stay on the Command Board to ensure balance in decision-making, and to prove to the world that the army and the government are completely united in all efforts.”
The High General studied him in silent coolness before he said, “One thing I’ve learned about educated men like you is that they assume everyone else is gullible enough to believe them. I, for one, have more faith in the public than I do in you. Warn the people, Mal. They deserve to know what they’re up against.”
“It’s not as if I control the reactions of the citizenry,” Mal countered. “If they still perceive the army as a threat, that’s up to you to resolve, not me. It’s the history of your army that still fills their grandparents with terror. You can’t deny history, Relf.”
The High General’s stony face hardened even more. “It’s all in how you present that story, Nicko. You can’t stay focused on what used to be, but see what it is now. Look at the color of the sky. People won’t care what the weather was last week, or decades ago. They need to prepare to deal with what’s coming now. Then what will you do? Convince them the sky is blue, no matter what they see?”
Mal leaned back in his chair. “Now why would a man like you be interested in what the children of Idumea are learning in school?”
“Why the change in the schools?” the general snarled.
Mal chuckled in a manner he’d practiced to be just to the side of oily. “Oh, my dear general—you’ve been at this for far too long. I promise you, six-year-olds being told that the sky is blue isn’t some kind of tactic. You need to take a few days off, Relf,” he said with a warm, sticky smile. “Take your wife and go to Coast or somewhere. Enjoy the salty air—”
The High General never shifted his cold glare. “I don’t need to take a few days off, Chairman.”
Mal’s gaze chilled as well. “But you do need to leave my office. In two minutes I have a meeting with the Administrator of Loyalty that I want to get through as quickly as possible. Unless there’s anything else?”
The High General straightened his jacket. “Nothing else, Chairman.” He spun on his heel and headed out of the office.
Barely a moment later a tall sneering man forced his way through the doors, and Mal could only sigh.
“Of course he’s expecting me! Now get out!” Administrator Gadiman shouted at an unseen page, who was likely cowering. Gadiman smoothed his red jacket and stretched out his neck while the Chairmen continued his long sigh. If Gadiman were an animal, his appearance would cause people to instinctively yelp, then proceed to stomp on him with their boots.
But for Mal, he was the perfect weasel.
“What have you for me today, Administrator?” Mal nodded to the stack of thick parchment files that held numerous thinner pieces of paper, tucked under Gadiman’s arm.
“All kinds of potential!” Gadiman sniggered with his version of a smile that consisted of bared teeth and thinned lips. “Over in Marsh there’s this group of cobblers—”
“I really don’t have a lot of time for this today, Gadiman,” Mal stopped him before he got too far.
“But they’re organizing! So that they can share ideas and—”
“Gadiman,” Mal said patiently, “I really don’t think shoe makers will overthrow the government.”
Gadiman leaned closer and whispered, “But what if they’re not making shoes?”
“What would they be making?” Mal whispered indulgently back.
“They have leather,” the pinched face said in a whisper. “Laces, rivet holes—armor!”
“We don’t use armor, Gadiman,” Mal said, feeling a stomping urge. “Not since the Great War. There’s no need.”
“There’s a need,” Gadiman pointed out, “if they plan to attack!”
“Shoe makers attacking the Army of Idumea?”
“Along with the tanners, who are supplying the leather, and the cattle ranchers who supply the cows for the leather,” Gadiman said excitedly. “It’s a conspiracy!”
Mal took a deep breath but regretted it, as the scent of the Administrator of Loyalty filled his nostrils and reminded him of rotting mulch piles. “That stack of files—,” he pointed to Gadiman’s arm, “cobblers, tanners, ranchers, and farmers? All organizing?”
“Farmers?!” Gadiman sat back up abruptly.
“Who supplies the feed to the cattle and the ranchers?”
Gadiman’s mouth dropped open. “I didn’t consider the farmers!”
Mal nodded. “I have a feeling there are a great many things you haven’t considered. You have some more research to do, Administrator. Come back in say . . . a season?”
Gadiman nodded vigorously. “Of course! Of course, I will.” He stood up and looked shifty-eyed around the large office. “About your other project, Chairman,” he whispered, yet blew out such a great amount of breath that Mal could identify his dinner the night before, and it must have been most unappetizing, “have you given any thought to my participation?”
“I have,” Mal tried not to inhale. “In the future I have no doubt I will be able to use you and your . . . talents.”
Gadiman’s face fell. “But I thought—”
“In time, Gadiman. We have all the time in the world.”
---
The High General strode out of the Administrative Headquarters, his lieutenants on his heels. He headed to his horse, tethered and watched over by two young pages grateful they weren’t in charge of holding open doors. Without a word he opened a pack secured to the side of the saddle wherein he kept thin papers, finer parchments, and even small vials of ink and quills. The High General believed in recording every bit of information that came his way, to be catalogued in his extensive filing system.
In the afternoon sunshine he wrote out a message on a small piece of paper, signed it, then blew on it until it dried. His lieutenants stood nearby, waiting patiently. He folded the message and sealed it in a thicker parchment envelope.
“Get this to the messaging office immediately,” he said to one of the officers. “There’s a rider heading out in less than half an hour. I want this delivered to the fort at Edge.”
The lieutenant nodded, mounted immediately, and rode away as the High General watched.
“Weather’s shifting again,” he muttered under his breath, without looking up at the sky.
Chapter 3 ~ “The sky really is blue,
and they can count upon that fact.”
“Remember, my beloved daughter—sometimes the world really is out to get you.”
It was at the oddest times that the last words of Mahrree’s father blew into her mind. They scattered her thoughts as if the cold winds that came down from the mountains behind Edge rushed into one ear and out her other.
Mahrree paused to consider the words after shutting the door to her little house. She was headed to the village green and the outdoor amphitheater for the night’s debate. She shook her head and chuckled as she made her way out of her little front garden which, considering the preponderance of weeds and rocks, insulted the title of ‘garden’. She continued on to the cobblestone roadway and headed south to the center of the village, smiling sadly at the memory of her last conversation with him.
She was fifteen, thirteen years ago. He was thirty-seven. He had started coughing a season before, near the end of Weeding, and almost three moons later it was clear he was dying. His slender, small body was wracked with pain and chesty convulsions.
Mahrree’s mother Hycymum could do nothing more but
wring her hands and make yet another creative dish of something which he couldn’t eat. Their rector came over every day to sit with his younger friend, and the village doctors tried every concoction they knew.
Someone even made the long journey to Pools, nearly seventy miles away, to bring the good teacher “healing waters” to cleanse him. Cephas Peto told his daughter he didn’t know how water that smelled like rotten eggs could be healing, and that he was sure people in Pools and Idumea got sick just as often as people in Edge.
The healing waters, the prayers of their congregation, and the dishes of min-a-stroh-nee and fall-ah-fal his wife created didn’t work, so on the 89th Day of Harvest Cephas beckoned to his daughter.
“Remember,” he whispered to avoid another coughing fit, “my beloved daughter—sometimes, the world really is out to get you!”
Mahrree had laughed in spite of her sorrow. She expected something more sentimental and profound than his usual teasing. Her mother just shook her head and dabbed her eyes. She never understood the cutting sense of humor her husband and daughter shared.
Mahrree had gripped her father’s hand and whispered, “So you’re going to let it get you?” That’s when her tears started.
“And remember, every story has a happy ending, if you just wait long enough.” Then he told Mahrree his extensive collection of books was hers.
Half an hour later he was gone.
Thirteen years later Mahrree still felt the sadness of his passing, but her sorrow was tempered because she still heard him. Not just words he said before he passed, but words he said after.
She never told anyone because she feared no one would understand, but Cephas Peto still spoke to her and gave her advice. And as she strolled through the neighborhoods of Edge, waving to her neighbors who were also heading to the amphitheater, she felt he was walking nearby, still watching out for her.
“The world is out to get me, Father?” She smiled as she breathed in the early Planting Season weather. “Doesn’t quite sound like a happy ending just yet. But send on the world! After such a dreary Raining Season, I’m ready for some excitement.”
The Forest at the Edge of the World Page 3