Oro handed Maran a cylinder seal, ages old, hailing from their ancestral land of Uma. “This is a reminder of who we are and where we came from.” Maran accepted it.
Next, Oro took a rock and a the poppy tea from a nearby table. “This is your pay.” Maran accepted the rock and the tea. “The rocks represent your burden, and the poppy tea represents the possibility of death.”
Maran drank the cold tea.
King Oro placed a medallion about Maran’s neck. “This is the sun. This is our life bringer. It is the sign of the Alliance of Light, of all the merciful gods and what they stand for. Look to the Sun!”
The people responded, “Look to the Sun!”
Maran echoed, “Look to the Sun!”
King Oro wrapped an arm around Maran, “My people, I present to you Maran, our first wayfarer in a generation. She will be our light to a dimming world.”
As applause filled the hall, the crowd surged forward, lifting Maran high, carrying her about the hall with claps and chants. Everyone wanted to touch her, to give her luck, to help her own her way. It seemed to Maran as if she flew on their hands, like one flies in a dream, always upward but never quite reaching the ceiling. When Saba rang her little bell, the crowd settled, floating Maran to the ground.
Mother rang the bell again, then chanted the prayers. She praised and thanked their god, Lord Basileus, the King of Stone who dwelt beneath Mount Perma. She praised and thanked the Wild Woman, who blessed the flocks. Lastly, and most importantly, she praised and thanked the White Lady, who taught the Loam the secrets of growing all things.
With great reverence, Saba carried the statue of the White Lady out of the hall and into the fields, the Loam following. Everyone held a branch, and everyone made their branches bloom over and over, leaving a trail of petals. Three times they circled the hall, chanting. Three times, arriving at the entrance, they uttered their prayers. Three times they intoned, “White Lady, pass us by.”
After that, procession proceeded to a special pit that had been freshly dug. Several aunts and cousins brought out a tray of small cups, filling each with poppy tea. Grandfather led in the sacrificial pig.
“We now make our sacrifice, as is our duty.”
Arma lead the sacrificial pig to the pit. The men bound the pig’s legs together, then threw it in. Quickly, everyone shoveled dirt on top of it, so that it was buried alive, squealing in terror. Even the smallest child threw in handfuls of dirt.
The sacrifice completed, the procession returned to the feasting hall. Saba placed the idol at the head of the table so that the White Lady could see the feast unfold in her honor.
Saba clapped three times. “The White Lady is our absent host. She returns to sleep in her bed under the kitchen, letting the world grow again. It is her boon to us. She demands that you feast!”
Maran moved toward her seat, but her father Heurek stopped her, pointing to where Oro stood, pointing to the empty seat beside him. That was the seat where Queen Getta once sat. Five years gone, that place seemed too holy for Maran. She shook her head. Oro walked over and touched her arm. “I want this,” he told her. “Sit next to me. Sit in her chair. Make an old man happy”
Maran relented. “In a moment,” she replied, “I must do my duty. I must greet the Lady.”
With great reverence, Maran walked up to the idol, dutifully kissing its feet. The false peace of the poppy now lay upon her, bringing warmth to her belly and euphoria to her soul. She remained there for several minutes, floating in the sacred sensations.
“Thank you, White Lady,” Maran prayed reverently.
With a lightened soul, Maran returned to sit next to her uncle and open the feast.
Somewhere in the evening, Maran slipped away from the feast. Her voice hoarse from chatting so continuously, and her feeling spent. A room full of people always exhausted Maran, even though she loved them all. Needing quiet, she took refuge in a quiet storeroom.
By tradition, all wayfarers slip away in the night, and Maran had no intention of breaking that tradition. With no time to prepare a bag all day, she now had to face that task. For Maran, this would be her hardest task. Even with her soul washed clean and her inner light glowing bright, Maran hesitated at the door, then cast away her fears. Walking through that door felt like plunging into a cold stream. There, on the floor before her, the great object of her fear rested, like some great beast that pursues you in a dream. Always it was there, and she could never run fast enough to leave it behind. This particular chest had been packed by her own hands and sealed with her own tears. Tears flowed again as she fumbled the wooden latches, opening the chest of broken dreams.
Kirim’s things lay in that chest, carefully folded and arranged. Kirim, who once nuzzled her ears and stole the blankets. Kirim, who never would apologize for those things that he did. Kirim, who showed up on her doorstep with a forged travel permit and a bouquet of flowers. Kirim, who did not need these possessions as he now trod the last road, the lonely road, the iron road.
“He will do fine,” her mother had said, “He will cross the bridge safely, and the Iron Duke has no reason to keep his soul. He will pass down the river to Endhaven.”
In her memory, in that horrid moment, Maran saw Kirim falling again, bouncing down the crag, dead before she reached him, his head split by a rock, his helmet cracked in two. There were no goodbyes. There were no last sighs. There was only falling. Always falling.
In her nightmares, Maran found herself under a glass tower, watching him fall, his body slamming so hard into the pavement that he bounced. Before she could run to him, a pack of dogs rushed in tearing him to pieces in a riot of blood. Maran reached for those dogs, sometimes in hatred, sometimes in revenge, and sometimes in frustration, but she never touched one. As she reached, she saw her bloody hands. Those dogs of death wagged their tails, begging before her, eager to lick her bloody hands clean. With a shudder, Maran awoke with the taste of rust in her mouth.
Maran could have contemplated that dream forever, never acting, never eating, never sleeping. Tonight could not be that night. She had to leave this treasure behind, not of gold, but of memories. To open it was to spend those riches. To open it was to become poorer. To open it meant living those dreams again. Maran accepted that. She was a poor woman from a poor family. She knew poverty and hardship well. She could not afford to leave riches buried in the groun.
With a will that had eluded her for so long, Maran opened her heart. She mourned for Kirim. She ached for him again. She ached for the children that never were. She ached for his kisses, the smell of his hair, and the warmth of his back on a cold night.
Numbly, Maran emptied her treasure chest, piece by reverent piece, arranging the items on the floor. She muttered as she moved, talking to keep herself moving. “Hello my big hedgehog, I wish that you could hear me. The White Lady gave me the courage that I needed. I'm going on a trip, and I'll be leaving you for a while. I need to decide what I should take. I won’t take your helmet. I couldn’t bear that. I could take your armor. It’s a good brigandine coat. I made the plates myself. Not one cracked in the fall. I could take your war hammer. I always liked it better than you did and you had said that you wanted a heavier one. Or maybe, I’ll leave it here with all these other things.
“Kirim, I want to take the Vow. I have no more heart for conflict. I want to live a life without violence. The Union has only gotten crazier since you were here. They push further and further. If I don't take the Vow, I fear that I'll take up arms. I can mix up a fight with anybody. I am not afraid. But should I fight? Is that the wise? The White Lady fought, but she also put down her arms. Can I do the same? Do I dare?
“If I'm to take the Vow, if I'm serious, then I need to act begin now. I can’t take these weapons. I'll grow frustrated and use them. I know that this isn't a true test, but it's test enough for me.
“I do need to take something. I see your caning knife. I made this for you in reds and yellows. Grandfather didn't say a word when he inspected
it. And I know that you would ask me to take this, so I will. I'm sure that I'll need it for gardening. I also need the seal. Do you remember the seal? We were too poor to pay the bribes, so we made our own sword and forged our papers. We were so shameless, weren’t we? I still am. Tomorrow, I’m going to Jura City, damn the laws.”
Maran stopped for a moment. “I suppose I should take the child price. Can you forgive me? No child has come. I prayed and prayed, but it never happened. This feels so blasphemous, but what else am I to do?” Maran took out a string of assorted coins, slipping them into her apron with a jingle. Finding that an intense moment, she until the emotions passed her by.
“I’ve missed you. When I come back, I promise that I’ll make something to hang your armor on. I’ll fetch your skull out of the garden and put it up on the shelf with the other elders. When I see you again, I will make that vow. I promise.”
Maran stopped and sat in the silence. Now that all Kirim’s things were out, Maran couldn't bear to repack them, finding herself unable to decide anything. Yet, begin she must. Maran packed the chest as she had packed it on Kirim's death. Item by item, she laid her treasure away, gently closed the lid on the chest, and pushed it back into the corner where it belonged. Once again, it was the beast that haunted her dreams.
The time had come for her to slip away, as a wayfarer should. That was a tradition, and Maran did traditions, for traditions defined a people as a mold defines clay. Without traditions, you were shapeless, unable to be anyone or anything. She picked up her coat and her bonnet as tradition dictated, ready to leave the party on her journey. From here, she would leave her traditions behind, heading into an amorphous and shapeless world.
Maran quietly entered the stables only to find her mother waiting for her. Saba gave Maran a tremendous hug and a long kiss to her cheeks, stepping back to stare at her daughter. “I am proud of you.”
“Mother! Tradition says that I sneak out during the party!”
Mother crossed her arms. “And tradition also says that your mother ambushes you before you go, gives you advice, and a little something to help you out. I never told you about this part. It’s a surprise. You’ll do the same one day.”
Maran doubted this explanations for a few seconds, then imagined doing the same for her own imagined daughter, and so knew this tradition to be true.
“Look what I have.” Saba brought forth an old doll, much bedraggled, with head and limbs made of porcelain.
“That’s my old doll! We still have it? Mother, I don’t need my doll.”
“It’s not for you. It’s for us. It will sit in your chair until you come home. It will remind us of you.”
Saba put down the doll and picked up a basket, handing it to Maran. “Here's a few days of food. This should keep you going.” Mother pointed to a paper in the basket wrapped in wax. “That is from your grandmother. It is a recommendation. It should get you into any kitchen that you want.”
Mother noted one more item. “This pouch is from me. Seeds. When you get a kitchen, you can grow all your curry spices fresh. I even packed away a few green coffee beans for you. The good ones, not the bad ones. Maybe you can find someplace to grow them.”
With humility, Maran accepted the gifts. “You are too generous. I don’t need these things.”
“Yes you do. I’m your mother, and I know. And your grandfather and your grandmother know as well. Remember, we are your elders and you should heed us. This is why we have traditions. Life is hard out there, and you will need every favor that you can get.”
Saba took one last, long look at Maran. Unexpectedly, she tossed her arms around Maran again, giving her daughter a tremendous embrace. “Don’t die.”
Zarand Agricultural Territory
With midnight long past, Maran considered heading straight towards Zarand, the closest town, but exhaustion made her think twice. Instead, she turned off the road, crossing the familiar fields to the Nooshin’s farm. Their whole clan was currently up at her house, and would presumably be there all night. Maran never knew a Nooshin to leave a party early.
Maran had half grown up at Nooshin farm, for that was the home of her childhood friend, Delaram. They used to be an inseparable pair, to the point where the elders of each family assigned them chores at both farms. At Maran’s wedding, Delaram met Kirim’s brother Miraj, and those two soon married soon after, then lived together as sisters-in-laws. Maran loved those years.
In her latest letter, Delaram announced that she had delivered a healthy boy. Maran felt thrilled. Now she would get to see the baby.
As Maran approached the Nooshin’s house, the dogs and the geese made a racket, but settled down quickly once they recognized her. Maran took several minutes to scratch ears and get licks.
“You are such good dogs, yes you are. You are very brave, defending your house against strangers.” Inside the house, Maran didn't bother lighting the lamp as she felt her way to the beds. After she climbed in, the dogs snuggled into her flanks, one cat sat on her feet and the other settled onto her head.
That night, Maran had another of her nightmares. As she walked along an iron road, far above the water, something with a single shining eye spied her, roaring. Maran ran, like an animal pursued, faster and faster, but her legs felt like lead. Seconds later, the beast threw her off, plunging her into the waters below.
The nightmare left Maran restless. Dreams of water were worse than dreams of falling.
Hungry, Maran raided the pantry for a cold breakfast. The dogs shamelessly did their best to beg some.
“Guys! No! I’m not sharing. You don’t get any. I can’t share with everybody.” The dogs all sat down and waited for their opportunity, but Maran knew them too well. “I’m wise to your tricks. I know you. Go kill a rabbit or something.”
Maran borrowed a pen and paper from her absent hosts and wrote herself a travel pass. She knew how to fake that document by heart. At first, her pen hand was unsure, but once she began writing, her hand remembered the task. “Maran Zarander may travel to Sureh and return again in her own time.” She then smeared the ink. A proper Hadean would never smear the ink, but you could always count on Nachlassig to brush her arm across the paper. To complete the task, she dripped green wax onto the paper, sealing it. Green was the wrong color, but Nachlassig always used green.
After letting the cats out, Maran raided the chicken coop for eggs. She would need them for bribery.
Finished with her chores, Maran knelt and said her prayers. She turned toward holy Mount Perma, knelt, and prayed to King Basileus. Next, she turned her face downward and said her prayers to the White Lady. There were more gods than that, of course, both big and small, but they were not important enough for daily prayers.
Maran rose up off her knees. Glancing up the mountain, she saw a train of people wending their way downward. If Maran were here when they arrived, they would welcome her as a guest and keep her there for days. That was the curse of the wayfarer: everywhere she went, she would be met with unlimited generosity.
Maran waved up the mountain, then turned and walked to the road, the dogs and the cats following along for a while.
At the first crossroad, Maran stopped at a checkpoint, which was little more than a cottage. Most such checkpoints had war widows in them, usually Hadeans. Father said that their families had wanted them out of the way, usually to rob them of any political or maternal power that they might have, which Maran found truly awful. The worst offenders of this system were the dowagers, who you would expect to be merciful toward other widows, but instead shoved their political rivals into the back country.
Maran knocked at the house. “Widow Armselig!” Maran called, then waited.
Armselig opened the door with her usual scowl. Was that scowl a natural part of the widow, or did she only reserve it for the Loam? There was simply no way of knowing.
One look at Maran, and Armselig looked even more disappointed than usual. “It’s you. Hand it over.”
Maran handed the wido
w her travel pass and two eggs.
“News?” Armselig demanded.
“Delaram has a new baby. I’m going over to visit.”
“Damned cockroaches,” Armselig said as she stamped the pass. After that scowl, she had nothing more to say, going back inside, lest she turn brown like the Loam.
Maran always felt sorry for Armselig, no matter how cruelly that woman acted. She had to feel lonely.
By mid-morning, the dew had mostly burned off and the day grew noticeably warmer. Down here in the valley, the buds were already showing on the trees. Farmers toiled in their fields planting, growing, and harvesting as fast as they could manage. The first maize crop was already up to Maran’s head.
The road had become a proper paved road, two wagons wide, its surface made of crushed rock, lime tailings, coal ash, and slag, packed by every wagon that rolled through. The Horsebreakers used those roads to haul their massive food wagons. Every morning, a line of them moved down that road, and every afternoon, that same line moved back up it. That’s was life in the Agricultural Territories: producing food, harvesting food, and moving food as efficiently as possible.
As wagons passed, Maran asked for a lift, but the Horsebreakers ignored her. The trick to getting a ride from a Horsebreaker was understanding that some Horsebreakers were old timers. Those Horsebreakers had never worked in the mines, nor had they worked some “better” job. They had hauled produce their whole lives and were proud of this fact. Find an old timer and he would give you a ride.
Sure enough, a gray-headed driver waved to Maran, and up Maran climbed, settling herself next to the old woman. “Thank you, Auntie,” she said politely.
“I had room,” the Kalt replied.
Horsebreakers were not known for their loquacious banter, and this one proved no exception. She groused the occasional word to her team, politely spoke the occasional word to Maran, but otherwise seemed content to smoke her pipe and drive her wagon.
The Kalts were a funny dwarves. Some had lived in the Union a long time, while were newcomers, driven from their free ranging further north. All dressed in raw leather and rough cloth woven from horsehair, driving their wagons in any weather.
Weeds Among Stone (Jura City Book 1) Page 2