by Jacob Cooper
“No, not like that,” Honleir corrected his younger cousin. “You’ll hurt your back.”
“How then?” Timney asked, frustrated. “I see you doing it all the time.”
“Not like that, actually. Once you’ve dug underneath the rock for a grip, you have to squat down next to it. Like this, see?” Honleir demonstrated by kneeling down with his knees facing outward and his arms extended down between them. He then dug his hands under the rock until he had a good grip.
“Now, see how my back is straight? All you need to do from here is stand up.” He grunted as he said the last words, standing up and freeing the rock from the sandy soil.
“Wow!” Timney said. “That has to weigh twice as much as you!”
“I doubt that much, but you don’t want this falling on your feet,” Honleir said.
“Have you ever not been able to free a rock?”
“Of course. Lots of times I use a lever of some kind. A bone, piece of wood or even another rock.”
“Why do we have to do this, anyway?” Timney asked.
“You know why. We need to clear the land for crops. Besides, the best soil has been preserved under rocks.”
“Is there such a thing as good soil in the Schadar? It’s all just sand and bedrock.”
“Maybe not,” Honleir admitted. “It’s just what we’ve always done.”
Not always, he corrected himself. There was a time when Kearon were not forced to live in such depravity—if the poems are to be believed. Some regarded them as elusive periphrastic nonsense, but Honleir loved to study the poems after a long day’s work. Most of his other friends were busy chasing the girls in the village or trying to sneak an extra cup of water from the water trench when the adults weren’t looking. The poems seemed to reach out to him as he matured, speaking to him in ways that he could not explain. He pondered on a stanza he had read the night before at the end of a poem called Waxing Whither, one not easily understood. He recited it in his mind over and over.
A Shield of wood and iron,
Splintered, dented, torn;
A shield of old parchment,
True, sturdy, Light born.
The passage seemed to be contradictory in nature. Looking to the verse before gave no insight but appeared rather to be ramblings totally unrelated. He repeated the complete section in his mind.
Bastards swaddled in loving arms
Where true born are turned away, spurned—
Legible Light has grown undim
Where lies him with no patronym.
A Shield of wood and iron,
Splintered, dented, torn;
A shield of old parchment,
True, sturdy, light born.
“Have you ever seen a green vegetable?” Timney asked. “I mean, a real one? Not the yellow and brown ones we get.”
“No,” Honleir admitted. “I don’t think it’s possible this far below the precipitation lines.”
“I’ve never even felt rain. Can you imagine? Water that falls from the sky! It seems magical. Do you believe it?”
Honleir shrugged. “Sure. Why not? Who says water only has to come from underground? Besides, my mother says it’s true.”
“Will you go north? You only have three years left. Before you can leave the village, I mean. They say the Realm is full of wonders too great to imagine!” Timney’s expression was full of wonder, like all boys of ten.
“I don’t know,” Honleir answered. “Why leave? My parents and uncle are here.”
“Yeah, I know, it’s just—I want to see it, you know? Get away from all this?”
He didn’t answer. To Honleir, the routine of working in the desert fields—removing stones, boulders, or other unwanted elements of all create that prevented taming of the land—was all he knew. His family had to scratch out an existence in the most southern parts of the Realm where tumbleweed and barren red clay soil were of no small measure. Attempting to tame land of this cast was not taken on save by the most desperate. No herds or natural growth of vegetation existed here so far below the precipitation lines. The Schadar Desert seemed to take pleasure in the suffering of its few unnatural inhabitants with its unrelenting heat mixed with winds of sand thicker than water. The granules of sand became so hot in the heat of day in certain parts, one could set out at night to search the desert grounds for slabs of soft misshapen glass, forged from the molten sand. A windstorm in the Schadar basin hurled fiery sand with such force that it burned and tore flesh from bone.
“Honleir,” Almena called to her son. Honleir looked up from his digging about a large boulder, his copper skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. His mother was panting for breath. “You must come quickly! The water trench!”
Honleir dropped his tools made of rotten wood and bone and sprinted after his mother. Behind their small abode of sand block and clay and between the cliff’s walls lay the water trench. The practice of building villages of the Schadar nestled against a cliff face had been adopted of necessity to give some relief to the desert domiciles from the sun’s heat granted by the shadow cast by the cliff face as the day progressed. All the villagers’ homes surrounded the water trench in a crescent, offering some protection to the most important asset found in the Schadar. Natural springs existed in the desert, but were often mixed with grit and sand of such great concentration that they were often mistaken for quicksand by the untrained eye, if they were even noticed. The constant effort of an entire village was required to strain the sand from the trenches, leaving water pure enough to drink and irrigate crops. The sand straining occurred three times a day, and was the first order of the morning for every new day. No villager could go on to his or her other duties before the water trench was adequately strained, providing life-giving water of even the lowest suitability.
He saw it as soon as he came to the water trench’s edge. Dry, cracked earth where water had been earlier this day. The spring had dried up suddenly, without any warning.
“I don’t—how?” was all he could manage.
A few of the men had dug down into the earth a couple feet. Nothing. Some women were crying, though they tried desperately to stop their tears. In the Schadar, no tears could afford to be shed. As the Poems of Rishz’nah taught,
Tears in the Schadar
A widow often makes;
Children turn orphans,
Parents return barren
The smallest increment of water was more valuable than a day’s measure of food.
He could see resignation starting to manifest upon the countenance of his people. This was death in the Schadar. The nearest known spring was over twenty leagues away, across a basin, more than a cycle’s journey. Some villagers would not be able to make such a journey, including Honleir’s own father and uncle. His anger flared, but to no avail.
Why? Why no warning? Where were the signs?
Honleir’s insides rumbled with fear and anxiety. The people of the village would have little more than a few days of water saved. Should they flee? Send for help? Who would come? Honleir did not know. He was lost. All paths seemed to come to naught. His legs failed him as he sank to his knees, ignoring the slight pain of hot sand burning his skin. No one would miss a village of the Kearon. No one would even know of its absence from the world, or their absence. Heat, not of the Schadar, but of unsurpassed anger, rose in Honleir.
Attempting to force himself into a mind-render to see some path of deliverance, Honleir grimaced with concentration, his face askew with determination. He held his breath in his focus until his lungs burned in protest. He exhaled violently and then drew in another full breath and shut his eyes again with renewed concentration. His teeth were gritting as he worked his jaw back and forth, lips slightly parsed. The wind whipped up sand that caught in Honleir’s mouth, but he did not notice. His concentration was not broken as he tried desperately to force his mind to show him some way to life, some form of redemption. The pounding within his temples began. Any time he forced a mind-render, the physical consequ
ences were great. He must force it though, this time he must. He must not submit to the pain. I must penetrate the mental barrier. Must push through…must see…must…
He felt it. The water below where the murky spring had been. It was too far to dig but he felt like he could grab it, seize upon it with his mind.
“It’s there,” he gasped. “I can feel it. Can’t grab it. Almost…” He caught it. Somehow, Honleir grasped the water with his mind and began to pull up. It was so heavy. He felt veins pulsing in his head, blood pounding in his ears like thunder. He pulled but the water did not come. Exerting more strength had no effect. It was anchored too deep.
“I can’t lift it! It’s too much! Too—”
“Honleir!” Almena cried out, looking down over her son as he knelt upon the desert sand, shaking. “Honleir, stop! Honleir!”
She reached down to shake him. When this did not break him from his anguished stupor she slapped the boy once, twice. Finally, he opened his eyes. They were bloodshot. He reached a quivering hand to his nose and felt the warm wetness of blood.
“It won’t come,” he said hoarsely. “I’m not strong enough. I thought maybe—but it’s just too heavy…”
“Save your strength. We will need you and the other strong ones.” His mother’s words were sprinkled with inflections of hope, but Honleir could hear the overtones of despair. She knew what this meant, what the fate of the village would be. Timney stood looking on at him with the other villagers, both old and young. He saw desperation in their eyes, pleading for him to do something. Anything.
“I will find water,” he said. “I swear it.”
NINETEEN
Ehliss
Day 19 of 4th High 412 A.U.
THE MINISTER OF TERRAN STUDIES tossed the scrolled report on his desk and leaned back in his old wooden chair. It creaked as he tipped it back on its hind legs. He put his hands together in a steeple shape in front of his mouth and looked to be pondering on what to say.
“Are you sure,” he finally asked, looking at the young woman in front of him. Ehliss put her hands on her hips and stared dumbly in response.
“Bah, I know you think me a fool for doubting you. But, still, Ehliss, I have to ask.”
“Minister Findlay, have I ever been wrong in one of my field reports?”
“No, but this is remarkable, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Perhaps, but it is still true, I assure you. My readings are accurate.”
“The report says roughly three inches?” Findlay asked.
“In some places, the glaciers have actually receded nearly a foot, but my random measurements along a four league stretch showed an average of three to four inches from the last report three years ago. I was not the one who submitted that field report, so I was skeptical at first with my findings. But the soil is indeed fresh, fertile and different in composition than the rest of the Northern Province.”
“Yes, yes, I read it all actually. Just wanted to hear you say it,” the Minister said. “Do you realize what you’re suggesting?”
Ehliss smiled. “Of course. Within seventy to eighty years, the Glaciers of Gonfrey would have likely receded enough to make meaningful use of the land. It’s actually great news in light of the Schadar, I thought.”
Ehliss was referring to other reports that had come from terranists in the south who had been measuring the Schadar Desert. Its borders seemed to be expanding north by several inches per year and eating into the Southern Province.
“The renewal process seems to be underway in the south, but it will be decades before the impact is beyond reckoning with,” Findlay observed. “But the climate is already starting to be affected in those parts. Minuscule amounts to be sure, for now. But there have been an increased amount of sandstorms this year. Relatively harmless and more of a nuisance than anything.”
“Other provinces are starting to report less crop production and leaner cattle,” Ehliss added. “Or at least fruits have lost some of their sweetness and other crops are more bitter tasting. The vegetation from the Western Province, however, seems unaffected thus far.”
“Yes, I’m aware,” the Minister replied wistfully. He was not sure what to make of those reports yet. Lands always cycled together, but the land once known as Arlethia was not showing signs of decay as the rest of the Realm did. It was uncanny.
“And, what of my request?” Ehliss pressed on. This snapped Minister Findlay back to their conversation.
“No, you just returned from the North. I need you elsewhere, Ehliss.”
“And who else will be sent to the north? Everyone else flees from the rotation,” she stated. It was true. Many of the other terranists would seek her out when their turn in the north came, asking to trade her rotations. She almost always accepted as she found the Great Glaciers of Gonfrey to be more mysterious than the mundane and droll data gathering assignments elsewhere in the Realm. She could not understand how others were relatively happy to simply do their job to the barest standards of acceptability and move on. There was no passion, no fire for their area of study.
“It’s Wesley’s turn in rotation,” the Minister said. “You’re going to the open plains to collect soil and grass samples.”
“The open plains? Minister Findlay, there’s no need. The soil there has been unaltered for centuries, despite the reports coming from other parts of Senthara.”
“Actually,” the Minister countered, “that’s not entirely true. While the richness of the soil seems the same, we don’t believe that’s going to continue.”
“Why’s that?”
“Worms.”
“Worms?”
“Actually, the lack of worms,” he clarified. “Farmers in the Eastern Province have noticed a considerable drop in the number of worms in the ground. It’s not as if they count them usually, but after a while, some started noticing they weren’t there anymore. Then others began to pay attention and reported the same. Very few would be dug up when they plowed their fields. Further, hunters nearby have noted a very difficult time finding boar. And the tall grass in the fields is thicker than anyone can ever remember. Do you know why, Ehliss?”
After a moment of not caring, it hit her. “No birds,” she said.
“Very few, anyway. Without the worms, boars have moved on to find grub elsewhere. Same with the birds, which would normally eat worms and the grass seed, thinning out the grass’s growth. So, while the soil appears fine now, we doubt it will be for long.”
“What do you want me to do?” she asked, still not that excited.
Roben Findlay leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on his desk. “Dig up a few score plots, ten feet square and five deep. Have your team note the number of worms they find in each plot. Simply record the data. That’s all for now.”
Ehliss rolled her eyes. “Minister Findlay, I can see the importance of this, but please, can’t you send someone else? Anyone else can do that task, and do it just as well as me.”
“I’ll strike a bargain with you, Ehliss. Do this assignment, which will only take a few days, and I’ll give you extra rotations up north within a cycle. It’s the best I can do right now.”
Ehliss grudgingly accepted.
TWENTY
Reign
Day 20 of 4th High 412 A.U.
REIGN SAT HUDDLED IN A CORNER OUTSIDE Hold Hoyt in the Southern Province, shielded from the sight of the stars and moons by a small awning of wood and thatched hay overhead. She was fifteen now and more a woman every day. Sometimes Hedron would comment on how much she resembled their mother, or at least what he could remember of her. Over the years, Reign had managed to cultivate a fragile happiness with the help of Hedron and Jayden.
There was the presence that continued to harass her; something born of ill create, she was sure. It pushed against her during moments of fear or danger, when she needed her focus the most. The dreams that haunted her in the night were no doubt inspired by the presence as well. She could not remember the last time she had slept th
rough the night without being woken at least once from nocturnal terrors. When she would awake, the pressure on her chest would sometimes feel as if boulders were upon her, cracking and crushing her sternum and ribs. Reign had no illusions that this force was real, and it was certainly of the Ancient Dark. Of this she was convinced. Why she was being targeted eluded her, but she was able to fight off the attacks more effectively now. The hate that burned inside her was her shield, she had noticed. The more she stoked that pyre of enmity, the sooner the attacks would subside. Hedron thought that an odd remedy, to fight the Dark with perhaps its most primal attribute, but he did not question her deeply upon this subject. Her twin brother was the only person she could openly be herself with, the only one she dared even smile around. Still, she had never revealed even to him the full picture of what she had seen, of the scarred demon that had reached out for her, who briefly touched her with a seemingly supernatural finger. Her left shoulder where the monster had touched still tingled sometimes with phantom sensation, causing her to jump in fright. Reign shuddered in her small hiding place, making a couple stones near her feet clatter. They sounded like how a giant’s teeth chattering from the cold might sound, she thought, remembering stories that old lady Wendham had told them when they ate dinner.
“The Haxlium were nearly a span of feet tall,” she would say, “and they could lift a horse with each hand!”
“They weren’t even real,” Hedron would protest. “No one is ten feet tall!”
“I said ‘nearly’ a span of feet, little lordling. You must listen more carefully,” Wendham would snap. “And if they weren’t real, where did the stories come from, I wonder?”
“Just some stupid made-up bedtime stories to scare little kids,” Hedron would say defensively. “Just like wolf men.”