by Anya Josephs
The baby isn’t beautiful at all. She’s actually rather hideous, red-faced and doughy and bald. But she’s also fiercely, vigorously alive.
Kari and Aunt Sarie help Merri settle her clothes in place so she’s presentable, and Sisi runs to get Jorj.
Merri’s smile as she sees her husband is blinding. He almost knocks me out of the way as he rushes to her side, but I don’t mind. I don’t think I could feel anything but joyful as he presses a kiss to Merri’s forehead and stares down at the baby in awe.
“This is your daughter,” Merri says, her voice still a little faint.
“She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Everyone keeps saying that about the baby.
“What are you going to name her?” Jorj asks. It’s a mother’s right to choose her child’s name, but as the father, he must be curious.
“Maliara. Mali for a by-name, I think.”
“Perfect. Just like the baby is. Just like her mother is,” Jorj says.
Maliara. I remember enough of the Old Tongue to recognize that word from the blessings Kariana used to say. Fullness. Completion. A fitting hope for a child born now, in our time of need and want.
And for short, Mali. Ill luck.
A perfect name indeed.
Chapter Five
Our goodbyes are brief. After all our planning and preparation, there is little left to do, and far too much to say, for us to even begin to find the words. How do you say goodbye to the only place you’ve ever lived, the only people you’ve ever known?
There’s no way to do it right, so we just hoist our bags up over our shoulders and begin the journey. We start with a farewell to Merri, which must take place in her and Jorj’s bedchamber. Only days after the birth, she is still too weak to stand.
Merri seems in good spirits, though, smiling at us all. “Just think, Sisi. Mali will like enough be crawling by the time you return.”
“If we return,” Sisi replies dourly, and Merri gently takes her hand.
“I know we shall see you again soon.”
Sisi doesn’t answer, her expression cold. I know she must be thinking about the journey ahead, and what she is afraid may be waiting at the end of it.
Undaunted by her silence, Merri continues. “Please stay safe, Sisi. Thank you so much for what you are risking. I will never forget this.”
Sisi’s face softens at that, and she bends to give her sister-in-law a tender kiss on the forehead. “Be well, Merri. Goddess guide you and your little one.”
“And you on your journey.” She turns to me. “And thank you, Jeni. For what you did in my time of need. Whatever it was. I don’t understand, and I expect you don’t either—but I don’t think Mali and I would be here without you.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t address it, saying only, “I’ll miss you both.” I kiss the baby, who is starting to look a little bit more like a person and a little bit less like a blob. Her skin, red-purple at birth, is settling into a rich brown, like her father’s and Sisi's, and she’s looking plumper by the hour. I’ll be sorry to miss her sweet baby days, as I know Aunt Mae and Sisi will be, but I’d be sorrier still to let Sisi go off without me.
We leave Merri and the baby behind, Sisi sparing a final tender glance for her baby niece, and take our last steps out of the farmhouse.
The rest of the family is waiting for us by the fully loaded cart. They are uncharacteristically solemn and silent, as though they are attending our funerals. I try to push that thought out of my mind. Unlike Sisi, I’m trying to look at this as the beginning of an adventure, not the start of an ordeal.
Slowly, we make our way down the line of relatives.
Uncle Willem and Aunt Sarie embrace us all, one after another. At their urging, their boys, Merri’s three little brothers, do the same, each as briefly as possible. They’d much rather be out playing dice or chasing each other around the yard than have the tedious task of saying farewell to a pack of women as we go off to do something they don’t even understand, but they do as their parents urge them.
Aunt Sarie is fond of us all, though, particularly Sisi. When Sisi was small, she used to climb into Aunt Sarie’s lap to have her thickly curled hair carefully braided into dozens of long, thin plaits. Now the two women pull away from each other, and both pairs of deep brown eyes are wet with tears.
Uncle Willem is as stoic as my father, clapping Aunt Mae on the back and nodding sternly at each of us. His care shows through in a different way: in the long list of warnings he gives us about how to travel safely. In the past, I would have laughed at his rambles about how to recognize a thief on the road, how to tell a good inn from a bad one, or where to find clean water in an unfamiliar wood. In times like these, though, it’s strangely touching to know that, however far we go, he’ll be with us in his mind.
Jorj practically follows us onto the cart itself. He ruffles my hair and calls me a sweet little bird and then very solemnly instructs me to take the best care I can of his sister. “You are going along with her to a nest of serpents, and you must be a very careful bird and keep your sharp eye out, for she has no friend at all there but you.”
“I’m quite used to being her only friend,” I say, a little teasing, but he shakes his head.
“’Tisn’t like here, where you may have no other playmates but are at least in your home, surrounded by your family. Sisi is my only kin left, the only memory of my parents, and the only other descendent of our House—and though I doubt you can understand what it means, having lived here in this lovely edge of nowhere all your life, it is no small thing to be the last descendant of a Numbered House. I am trusting you to take care of her, now, when I cannot.”
“I will,” I promise, now matching the gravity of his tone. For once, I don’t feel offended by his condescension; the moment feels too serious for that, as irritating as I usually find it when he talks down to me in this way.
He makes Aunt Mae swear to the same promise, and then turns to his sister.
Sisi already has tears flowing down her cheeks as she throws her arms around her brother’s neck. “Jorj.”
“Sigranna. My dearest sister.”
They don’t say anything else at first; they just embrace one another for a long, long time. Eventually, they exchange a few more words. It seems empty, as though what they really have to say to one another can’t be spoken.
“You’ll be safe, won’t you?”
“Of course. And you’ll look after Merri, and the little one? And teach the babe how much I love her, and tell her stories of me.”
“I will. Of course I will. And I have advice for you, if you’ll take it.”
“Only from you,” Sisi says with a smile, but there’s nothing light about Jorj’s manner as he replies.
“Don’t let Lord Ricard bully you. He might be famous for his charm, but he’s also said to have a notorious temper. I know how stubborn you are, so use that to your own advantage, all right?”
“And likewise, you must be careful not to run yourself into the ground. I know how much pressure you put on yourself, dear brother.” Sisi smiles at him, her cheeks dimpling as they always do when she smiles. “You needn’t worry about me failing to speak my mind, Jorj. I should think you know me well enough to know that.”
“But don’t be too outspoken. There could be trouble if you anger him.”
“As you’ve told me more than once,” she retorts.
“I don’t mean to nag. It’s only that—”
“There’s danger in the Capital. You’ve told me that all my life, Jorj.”
“It’s more than that. I…I don’t know what the Second in the Kingdom could want with you, but I have my suspicions. I don’t know what I would do if you were to ever—”
“I know,” Sisi says soothingly. I look away, feeling I should give them their moment of privacy to say farewell, but Sisi is already pulling away from her brother’s embrace. “I’ll be careful. I’ll be safe.”
Jorj
says nothing in return, only nods. I suspect it would hurt his dignity, as a man of the Numbered, to let himself weep in front of all of us. Which is foolish, since neither Sisi nor I hesitate to do so.
I feel a touch from behind me and turn around. My father’s hand, big and warm, has landed tentatively on my shoulder. As I face him, he gives me a small smile, lifting only one corner of his mouth.
When he finally speaks, all he says is, “Goodbye, Jena.”
I look at him for a long time, expecting him to say something else—some words of fatherly advice perhaps, or a tender farewell. Something about how much he’ll miss me. How much he loves me, his only child. Instead, he smiles that half smile, and turns away.
“Come along, girls,” Aunt Mae says, and Sisi and Jorj break apart with obvious reluctance. I, however, almost flee the site of my farewell with my father. Sisi and I climb into the back of the carriage, as Aunt Mae sits up front, taking the donkey’s halter in both hands. My aunt can’t look back as we drive away, since she has to focus on the road ahead, but Sisi and I can, and we do.
Looking behind us, we see the whole family, except for sickly Merri and tiny Mali, assembled in their lines to see us off. Sisi and I stare back at them. Sisi is waving and waving and waving at her brother. He waves back as the wind whips through the carriage, chilling the tears on her face, but she doesn’t stop to wipe them away, not while Jorj is still in view. I can just see my father at the back of the crowd, his shoulders slumping, his face as unreadable as ever as the cart shudders into motion.
Two words. That’s all he could manage to say to me, not knowing when or if we would return, if we would ever meet again. I had longer goodbyes with every other member of the family, even the boy cousins, who normally think of me as nothing more than an annoyance, and even Merri, who has a babe only a few weeks old and is still too weak to stand. But my father, my closest relative, my only parent, could not even find the words to properly wish me a safe journey. And those two words were more than he usually says to me in a day, a week, some months. He has not exactly been a tender father.
It’s not as though he’s cruel. I know I shouldn’t feel so resentful of him, not when so many girls have fathers who marry them off when they’re even younger than I am, or scream at them, or beat them. It’s not so bad to be ignored. After all, I have Sisi’s constant companionship, and I have work to do that’s worth doing, and I’m headed off to the Capital to a royal ball with a purse of golden shekin, which ought to be a dream come true for any country girl like me. Yet, I can’t fight the feeling that something is missing. That, as I leave home, maybe forever, there ought to be something for me to regret leaving behind.
Chapter Six
“Oh, honestly, girls, you can’t possibly want to hear an old story like that again,” Aunt Mae says, though all three of us know she’s just dying for the chance to tell it.
“Auntie, please,” I whine, playing along.
“We’ve been stuck in this cart for days,” Sisi points out. Two of them, to be exact, but we’re already tired of the journey, and there’s so much farther to go. We’re all desperate for anything to disrupt the incessant boredom. This is less of an adventure than I expected it to be. All there is to see is an unchanging backdrop of flat and unbroken terrain, with the occasional tree to liven things up.
“And we’ll be here for days and days more,” I echo. Our best guess is that it’s going to take us three weeks’ journey to make it to the City, but that’s based off one map that the soldiers had left with us and Jorj’s best surmising, not on fact.
“We’re bored senseless, and my leg has fallen asleep siting on this cart. The wood’s as hard as any rock.” Sisi pouts prettily and rubs the offending limb.
“And there’s nothing better than one of your tales to pass the time,” I add.
Aunt Mae smiles a little at the blatant flattery. “All right, all right. You’ve worn me down. I’ll tell you both a tale.”
“Thank you, Auntie.”
“Sisi, you take a turn driving. You know I cannot do two things at once.”
“Of course!” Sisi volunteers eagerly. She’s happy as long as we’re about to get a distraction.
Aunt Mae pulls the reins up sharply, stopping the donkey in his tracks. Maher—the name means speed, for the sake of irony—is thrilled at the opportunity to stop moving, even for the mere moment it takes for Aunt Mae and Sisi to trade spots. I remain in my seat, pulling my blanket up over my legs, as Aunt Mae settles in next to me. She leans back, getting comfortable, while Sisi nudges the reluctant Maher back into a slow trot with a few careful prods of a stick we keep for this purpose.
“What was it that you girls wanted to hear?”
I look to Sisi, who glances back over her shoulder, to decide.
We both consider for a moment. I know what I want to hear—a story of magic. It’s always been my favorite of Aunt Mae’s many types of stories. I especially like the few tales of the adirim that Aunt Mae knows, whether about the great kingdom they had here before the establishment of our own Kingdom of All the Earth, or their ruak, or their secret and mysterious ways.
Sisi prefers stories of intrigue. She likes tales of politics and court gossip.
We used to squabble over it regularly as children. But now I don’t mind letting Sisi choose, and she’s kind enough to select a compromise.
“Tell us about the First King?” Sisi asks.
“If you insist.” Aunt Mae clears her throat. As I wait for her to begin speaking, I notice that there is no sound at all. I can’t even hear the wind in the trees, and the cart is gliding silently down the road. I’m even holding my breath.
It’s as though all the Earth is waiting to hear the story. Our town is too small and rural to attract the peddlers and players Jorj remembers from his youth in the castle of Eastsea, but we’ve never lacked entertainment, not as long as we have Aunt Mae to tell us tales of every wonder our Kingdom has ever held.
“Well. Our Earth is an old Earth,” she begins, the traditional opening to any story. “And its histories are lost to time, which will consume us all in the end. The circle of time opens here, with the oldest story that has been handed down to us.”
Sisi prods Maher forward again, and the cart slowly jolts back into motion. Aunt Mae’s voice is just loud enough to be heard over the clattering wheels as we resume our journey.
“For a long time, there was nothing but the Earth. Gaia, the Goddess of the Earth, the Goddess who is the Earth itself, governed all Her creatures, and no one could contest Her rule. Many beings lived in harmony back then. There were terrible and mystical beasts, like the ziz, a bird so immense its wings could block out the sun. The pahyat, Gaia’s many children, lived quiet, simple lives, not marking the change of years. The adirim, for all their fierce ruak, were no greater, not then. Even their legends do not describe this time, for they lived in wildness, as the beasts do now. For days, for years, for centuries stretching onward, such was the only way of life on Earth.”
Aunt Mae pauses a moment, as if struggling to remember. It’s been a long time since we’ve heard this particular story. It’s one for children, after all. And yet it is wonderful to imagine, this Earth she paints for us. Most of the creatures she describes haven’t been seen in generations, except for those who can blend in with humans, like some of the pahyat. They say the rest have disappeared from the face of the Earth.
Maybe it isn’t a faulty memory that makes Aunt Mae pause. Maybe it’s grief, the same that is swelling in my heart—grief for the beautiful Earth of the old stories, and for those of us who have to live without it.
“But then everything changed. It began like every other day: the fair bright sun rising over Gaia, the light of Her love shining down on Her children, but something different was destined to come. A great storm began. For the first time, rain fell on the surface of the Earth, and thunder and lightning roared. In the wake of such a storm, all the beings of the Earth cowered and stared for they had never seen su
ch destruction.
“But something even stranger than the Earth’s first rain was to fall. A great golden cloud rolled in from the Eastern edge of the Earth. No one had ever seen such a wondrous thing. All the go’im that dwelt in the Earth in those days came to see what had happened. They all emerged from their homes and waited and watched the golden cloud for what seemed like months. Suddenly, two shining figures emerged from the cloud. They were dark of skin and dark of hair, and yet their flesh shimmered with the golden light of power, as though they were composed of the cloud of ruak that had brought them, and not born from the Earth our Mother. These were Gaia’s chosen children, and they were to be the First King and Queen of this land.”
“But where did they come from?” Sisi asks.
“Don’t interrupt me,” Aunt Mae retorts. “We’re getting to that part.”
“Sorry, Auntie.”
In a portentous voice, full of deep seriousness, she continues. “No one could ever figure from whence they came. One day they weren’t there, the next they were. That is all that can be said with any certainty. Still, there are many rumors of how such beings came to be, when all the other creatures living were born from the body of Gaia Herself, the Earth. The adirim say that Gaia Herself gave birth to them, not from Her physical body, the Earth, but from Her godly body above. And the pahyat say there were other Gods, not just our gentle Mother Gaia, but others that are fearsome and unknown, and that they created humans in defiance of the power of the Goddess to be the destruction of Her other creatures. No one can be certain which of these peoples is right, if indeed either of them are.”
“Fascinating, to say the least,” Sisi interrupts again. At a single, sharp stare from Aunt Mae, Sisi silences herself once more, allowing Aunt Mae to continue. Sisi even looks slightly ashamed of herself.
“All we know is that when the first man and the first woman stepped out of that shining cloud, they were as naked as newborn babes, though their shapes proclaimed them to be adults. They descended hand in hand, looking up toward the sky as their bare feet touched on the Earth for the first time. All the beings of the Earth trembled before them, for they knew they were facing those greater than themselves. The First King and his Queen had descended onto the Earth for the first time.”