The Winter Boy

by Sally Wiener Grotta

  Tayar couldn’t deny his logic. “Then you have chosen that path.”

  “No. I’m just not closing doors. Until I know more about those guns and the men who took them, I can’t know how they’ll alter the future. Have you learned anything more about them?”

  “We know which Alleshi lead them and the names of some of the Allemen.”

  “Alleshi and Allemen… there’s no doubt?” he asked.

  “As little as there can be without having seen it myself. One Allesha has confirmed it.”

  “And they killed that woman, Caith?”

  “It appears so.”

  “What’s the Alleshine Council doing about it?”

  The balance between them had changed. Tayar realized her role, the one Dov had chosen for her for the moment, was to provide information. “We have sent two loyal Allemen after those who stole the guns.”

  “How do you know they’re loyal?”

  “One is my son, Eli. The other is Tedrac, your father’s Triat.”

  Dov nodded. “What are their plans?”

  “They will organize a group of Allemen to follow the renegades and try to persuade them into returning to The Valley.”

  “That will fail.”

  “Probably, but they must try. It will be Allemen talking with Allemen. That has to make a difference.”

  “Or maybe that will make it even more difficult. Both sides know the other too well and will have no difficulty reading each other. Besides, what advantage can Eli offer, when the other Allemen already have what they want?”

  “Peace.”

  “The one thing they obviously don’t want,” Dov countered.

  “Peace with their own people — Alleshi and Allemen, and all those who remain loyal to The Valley.”

  “Do you really think the renegades believe they’re doing anything other than being loyal, protecting everything this Valley stands for?”

  “Perhaps.” Tayar paused, as she pictured Kiv sitting at her kitchen table, so sharp and sure, determined to save the Peace, whatever it would take. “You’re right; that is exactly what they believe.”

  “If so, they’ll see Eli and his band as obstacles to be pushed aside. Or worse, enemies who would stop them from doing what’s necessary.”

  Tayar shivered despite the moist warmth of the room. “And they may have an advantage that we can’t give Eli. Those rapid-fire guns aren’t the only things the renegades took from the storehouse.” She paused, realizing how much Dov still didn’t know. “They appear to have discovered a hidden cache — some lost secret, perhaps from the civilization destroyed by the Great Chaos.”

  Dov didn’t respond. Tayar recognized the signs; he was waiting for her to fill in the blanks. When she didn’t continue, he said, “The more I learn, the more complex the questions become. What are the Alleshi doing to find out what the renegades uncovered?”

  “Searching the library and storehouse, sending Eli and others after the renegades, while trying to control who has full information, to avoid further escalation. I believe that only Eli and the Alleshi of your father’s Triad know about it, though Mistral and Tedrac will probably be informed.”

  “The Alleshi have so many secrets; no wonder they can’t remember all of them.”

  For several breaths, both were silent, lost in their own thoughts. When Dov spoke again, it was with a husky rasp, as though the words were forced from his throat. “Tayar, when did the Mwertik start raiding across our borders?”

  “They’ve always been raiders.”

  “Like they are now?”

  “No…” Her voice trailed off.

  “What’s the difference?”

  “The ferocity and how far within the Peace borders they now come.”

  “When did it change? Was it about eighteen years ago?”

  Tayar stared at him. “I don’t have an answer for you.”

  “Skies! What if I’m the cause of everything?” Though his body remained still, it was with a rigidity rather than ease. “Tayar, do you blame Pa?”

  “We can control only so much.” Tayar’s gaze clouded over as she listened to Eli’s voice within her.

  “I wish I could give you back your dream, Tayar. You believed in it all when I first came here, didn’t you?”

  “And you think I don’t anymore?”

  “You want to, Tayar. But it’s harder for you now.”

  “Perhaps that’s part of the messiness of life, Dov. Maybe, we’ll never find real answers, only more questions.”

  Chapter 76

  As Tayar settled into the sofa, she leafed through a small leather-bound volume to find the entry she wanted. “I’m going to read from another Alleman’s journal tonight.”

  Dov stretched out in his corner of the sofa. “Tayar, we have so little time left, and we haven’t finished The Traveler’s Tales.” Dov reached for the book from the side table and opened it. “Look, there’s only one story to go, called In Silence.”

  Tayar closed the journal and leaned her head back against the upholstered arm as he began to read.

  I wandered from village to village, staying a season here, a few days or weeks there. I no longer allowed any to name me, choosing to belong to no one and nowhere. Instead, I became known as Alleen. Not that I had planned to take my friend’s name, but when asked who I was, it was the first to come to my lips.

  I was able to trade my healing skills for shelter and food in most places. As I healed, I told my stories of what might be if only we could find the way to peace, but they did not take root. Most dismissed my tales as fantasies suitable only for children. Others rose up against me for suggesting such treasonous ideas.

  Eventually, I became known and my arrival at villages anticipated. Not for my tales, but for my skills. Those healers who were not jealous of my knowledge sought me out to learn and to teach. Headmen and councils would sometimes give me messages to carry, and being a messenger often gave me a small amount of safety on the open road ~ as long as the people I met were the ones I sought.

  I sometimes became caught up in battles, but as Alleen Healer, not as a nameless victim. More than once, I became bounty for the victors. Over time, I learned to avoid wars whenever I could. Perhaps it was cowardice for a healer, but I’d had enough of the mindless bloodshed ~ and of the cruelty that continued even after the battle had been won or lost. I traveled along the edges of the chaos, visiting villages that would have me, leaving quickly when I was no longer welcomed or needed, and before I could learn to care too deeply for anyone.

  The last village I visited was no better or worse than many others that had spanned my years. They welcomed me while the sick needed me, stoned me out of their midst when a child died. What had changed was that I was weary, and my feet began to falter. I wondered if it were time for me to finally stop walking.

  In my travels, I had heard of a group of men who had retreated from the world to live in the caves of the White Mountains. It was said that they spent their days in silence. I made my way to them, walking through the spring into early summer, avoiding all villages along the way. The closer I got to the White Mountains, the more often I would encounter other travelers who knew something of the hermits I sought. Then I would share their evening fire, and glean what I could of the men of the caves.

  The White Mountains are at the north end of a wide, fertile plain that was gentle on my feet. But the climb to the caves was steep and forbidding. Ofttimes, the path I followed ended at a cliff, requiring that I backtrack and try another approach. I spent the nights on small ledges, sleeping only fitfully, fearful of rolling off into the crags below. After several days, I finally spied the caves above me and set up camp behind an outcrop of stone.

  I watched for one day and night, to learn what I could. About thirty men lived in a series of caves, though I couldn’t tell whether each had his own private cell, or if all the entrances I saw led to one large cavern. Each man went about his daily chores without imposing on his neighbor. For hours, they sat quietly
in the sun and wind, staring into the distance. It reminded me of my days with Alleen, when we would listen and see and become part of the life that surrounded us. Here at last, I thought, I had found people who understood peace.

  Set apart from the others, one man perched on a large boulder above the caves, as guard or leader, or both. He was nearly as dark as I, though he was burned by the sun, not his lineage. Compact and scrawny, he had no hair, not even eyebrows; his parched skin stretched over jutting bones. His clothing, like that of the others, was a rough weave wrapped around his torso, arms and legs. As the day warmed, he loosened it to the breeze.

  Of all the hermits, only the man on the boulder was nearly motionless, as though he had become part of the rock. Others had varying levels of skill and distinct personalities. An old man, whose white hair and beard reached past his waist, fidgeted with pain in his hips, yet smiled inwardly as he meditated. A small man with improbably bright red hair chewed on a twig all day. Might it be a soporific, I wondered, or his way of keeping his mouth busy so he wouldn’t accidentally break the silence?

  The one who appeared to be the youngest was probably also the newest of the hermits, judging from his lack of focus. In his late twenties, he had thick dark hair, round cheeks, pale skin and large darting eyes. He had difficulty sitting for long, disrupting his meditations to rearrange his clothing, move an offending stone, or shake out a muscle cramp. He often disappeared into one of the small cave mouths, though not the one directly behind his perch.

  In the late afternoon, the young one ascended the cliff to sit below the dark man’s boulder. Eventually, the man above acknowledged him, and the young one climbed up onto the boulder. That was the first time I saw any of these recluses speak. Though I couldn’t hear what they said, the young one was clearly upset. With a single sharp nod, the dark one dismissed the supplicant. The young one appeared cowed by whatever had transpired; he slowly retreated from the boulder, returning to his own far perch on the lower tier of the caves.

  That night, I lit a large fire on my ledge, to be sure my presence wouldn’t be a surprise.

  The next morning, I waited until all the men had finished their tasks and had settled into their meditations. Each sat in the same place and pose as the past two days. On their tiers of ledges overlooking the plains, they resembled wild birds roosting on the many branches of a tree, though I didn’t know if they were scavengers or nesters. When each had attained the level of quiet he was capable of achieving, I left my belongings where I had camped and climbed to sit just below the leader’s boulder, as I had seen the young supplicant do. I crossed my legs, arranged my hands on my lap, rounded my shoulders over my straight back and gave myself to meditation. But I kept the leader within the periphery of my sight so I would not miss his summons.

  Composing myself as Alleen had taught me, with my body relaxed but centered, I opened my senses. I was not as still as the leader, because my body flowed naturally with the rhythms of all around me. The air stirred with the passing of a flock of birds. A small rodent scurried with a hard-earned berry. Water cascaded out of sight but nearby. Yes, this was a place I would enjoy getting to know.

  For two days, I sat below his boulder, leaving it only to eat, sleep and eliminate. He avoided passing near me when he left his perch, taking a higher path to his cave at night. On the second morning, I thought I saw him react to my return, as though he were surprised or pained by it. But it could have been a muscle spasm in his neck.

  Only the young supplicant from the other day appeared affected by my presence. He seemed to recognize me, and it disturbed him. I wondered if he had once lived in a village I had visited in my travels. Growing increasingly agitated, by the end of the second day, he didn’t even attempt to meditate. On the third morning, I was about to leave my camp to resume my vigil under the leader’s boulder, when the young one rushed forward to sit there instead. The leader beckoned to him. When they spoke, the younger one shifted from one foot to the other, and his hands flew with his words, pointing often to me. The leader listened a short while, then dismissed him with a scowl.

  When the rhythms of the community calmed as much as they could be with the young one so troubled, I resumed my supplicant pose below the leader. Almost immediately, he nodded to me in such a manner that I knew he meant for me to approach. I climbed up to his boulder and, keeping the distance between us that I had seen the other men maintain whenever they were near one another, I waited. I felt his eyes on me, examining every feature of my face, every aspect of my body. Only after he had completed his survey did he speak. His voice had an incisive edge, with no embellishment of tone. “You are Alleen Healer.”

  I lifted my eyes to his and said, “Yes.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I wish to live among you.”

  “We have no women. You would be a disruption.” His upper lip curled in distaste.

  “I know how to be silent,” I explained. “I need silence.”

  “Why?” he asked, though his voice was so flat that only the word defined it as a question.

  I did not need to ponder my answer; I had lived with it for too long. “Words are the scourge of the world. Only in silence is there peace.”

  “Then go and be silent elsewhere.”

  “Some of your brothers are in pain. I can help.”

  He glanced below us where the young one waited, watching our every move and gesture. “Their pain is given to them to bear.”

  Something in the way he said it made me wonder at the young one’s agitation. This man had spoken to me for a reason. He knew who I was.

  “Someone is ill,” I said, guessing but stating it as fact. “Allow me to help.”

  He did not respond, nor did he dismiss me. I quieted my heart and waited, knowing he was trapped between two difficult choices. To allow me to heal his fellow hermit would mean bringing me within his community. A stranger. A woman. To turn me away would be to risk greater sickness. Perhaps even death. And if the illness were contagious, disaster.

  Finally, without looking at me, the leader motioned to the young one, who led me to the small cave that had commanded so much of his attention. I had to bow my head to enter. Turning before going in, I saw that the leader had resumed his meditation, but I doubted he was as unaware of me and my actions as he wanted either of us to believe.

  Next to a well-tended fire lay a young man who looked so much like the one who had brought me here that I had no doubt they were brothers. While the one who stood by my side was in constant motion, checking the fire, arranging the blankets around his brother, running his fingers through his own hair, the one on the ground was as still as death, burning with fever and wheezing with each laborious breath.

  I had never attempted to heal anyone without being able to speak; my voice is part of my healing. Still, I had chosen their life of silence and would not be the one to break it. I gestured to the healthy brother that he should boil some water while I fetched my packs. Hoping I was coming here to stay, I had gathered a large collection of plants, saps and other medicinals. I brewed a bitter tea to soothe his fever, created a hot compress to ease the congestion in his chest, and massaged an unguent into his skin to stimulate his sinews.

  My patient whimpered almost constantly with pain. Only once did he cry out, “Tren!” and his brother ran to him, stroked his brow and whispered, “Shush, Ket, shush.” His words were so soft I might have mistaken them for an exhaled breath. However, Ket did quiet at the sound of his brother’s voice. During the day, Tren did not leave Ket’s side. But at night, he had to go to his own cave while I slept by my patient.

  The crisis came the next day, with the fever cresting so high Ket’s flesh felt like fire. Though I spread unguent under his nose and in his mouth to force my medicines into his lungs, his congestion was so thick that breaths came only sporadically and with great effort. I had to act fast or lose him. Rolling him onto his stomach, I straddled his back, pounding it with my fists, while I had Tren bathe him with coo
l water. I fought hard for his life, with brews, ointments and vapors, knowing that I could do only so much. This time, I won. He was soon breathing more easily, and his fever subsided.

  When Tren realized his brother would live, he smiled for the first time since I had arrived. He sat at my feet and, when I did not respond, reached for my hands, kissed my palms and then pressed them to his head. Ket was still weak, but he pulled himself to a sitting position and repeated his brother’s gesture of fealty and thanks. Then the two of them embraced, both convulsing with noiseless tears and laughter.

  Pitching my tent over Ket, I created a steam hut to clear his lungs completely. I no longer feared for his life, though I knew it would take weeks for him to mend.

  The next morning, Tren silently greeted me and my patient, and then gathered my few belongings. He shouldered my packs and led me to a vacant cave on the edge of the community, far from the leader’s boulder. To this day, I don’t know if the leader had given him permission or if he had acted on his own, in gratitude.

  I cannot say that I ever became part of the community. I was tolerated but ignored, acknowledged only by the two brothers. But I did find peace within the silence. Every morning and evening, I ate alone in my cave. I spent the hours of the day in silent meditation on my sun-baked ledge. The only things I missed were the songs that came to my heart but could not be sung.

  The mountains were rich with everything we could want. I would go out from time to time to gather for my medicine pack and my meals. Any extra food or water I had, I would leave outside the caves of the older men. They never thanked me, but they did not refuse my gifts. I believe some of them came to accept my presence. I know I saw a twinkle in the eye of the one with the long white hair and beard when I came near. And the herbs I secretly sprinkled into his food seemed to ease his pain.

  The hermits seldom gathered their own food. Nor did they allow themselves to be distracted by the manual labor required to fashion the basic goods even ascetics need. Instead, they accepted gifts from the plains people, who considered the community sacred. Villagers left offerings nearby, always maintaining a respectful distance. Rarely did any approach the leader’s boulder, and of those, few men were granted an audience.