Zya's only companion at this time was Cahal the caravan guard. The grizzled old man had seen his fair share of fights during his life, and despite his advancing middle years he was still one of the toughest men Zya could remember meeting. He stood a short distance away from the camp, the chill morning breeze ruffling his hair, the only sign of movement from a man who could have been carved from one of the distant peaks. There was no real need for a lookout in the high lands, but Cahal maintained his post with a stoic commitment for a hired guard. He was one who had earned the fee paid a dozen times over. He had been with the caravan as long as Zya could remember, and despite his aloofness, was a warm caring man; he was as an uncle to her. He winked at her as she strolled past, bringing a smile to her young face. There would be no harm in her walking across the nearby meadow to the stream beyond. Otherwise Cahal would have accompanied her, calling the other guard out from his state of slumber.
The meadow felt soft, yet firm underfoot as Zya strolled, lost in her thoughts. The meadow flowers, tiny sunbursts of yellow surrounded by delicate fringes of white bounced back as her feet lifted. It was as if there was a vitality so pure, so concentrated that it gave the inhabitants of this area a boost beyond what sun and water could do for most. Even the weeds, sparse as they were seemed healthy and full of life, content with their lot in this wonderful place. The meadow rolled down a gently sloping hill towards the headwaters of the stream, and Zya found herself following the contours of the incline as she made her way towards what could well have been the source of the vitality in the region. Zya glanced uphill; she could see that Cahal had followed slightly, just enough to keep her in sight while keeping an eye on the rest of the camp. Stepping around a burrow that seemed as perfect as creation, she approached the stream. The vibrant sound added to the pleasure of the dawn. The sun pierced the distant crest of mountains and sent shafts of light past her and into the trees opposite. 'Miracles' her father called them. For when one single beam was said to touch someone deserving, something miraculous would happen to them. People scoffed at the things her father used to say, but scepticism was not part of her nature.
Zya crouched on the bank, trailing her fingers in the crystalline perfection of the babbling brook. As with everything else in this spot it seemed almost alive, as if the enthusiastic bubbling were the pulse of the river laid bare for her alone to see. The water was icy cold, and when she lifted a handful to her lips it tasted as sweet as morning dew, refreshing as a mountain breeze. The taste only served to enlighten the pleasure of the private moment she had stolen. She gazed at her reflection on the rippling surface. Her hair, long and dark framed a face with high, pretty cheekbones and dark, luminous eyes. As she gazed, her eyes looked deeper into the stream. It was as if she was seeing beyond the surface of herself, a feeling she had had several times during her life. The feeling passed and Zya found she was gazing at the bottom of the stream, the bed full of broken rock not yet worn smooth by the flow of the river. Amongst the rock she noticed the eggs of some creature laid long past, and imagined that the effort was worth it to reach such a place. Whatever hatched from the eggs would receive a beneficial start in life, she was sure of it. She lay back on the riverbank full of blissful contentment. A day would rarely start so positively for many, and she felt blessed for her experience. There were not many places like this and as she shut her eyes to soak in as much of the feeling as she could, Zya vowed this was a place for beginnings and endings, one she would return to. She lay there for a time, enjoying the peace, until she became aware that she would shortly be joined. How she knew she could never tell, but Zya had a knack of knowing when someone was coming.
The man stopped a few paces away from her, and she knew who it was without opening her eyes.
“Beautiful isn't it?”
“You picked a perfect moment to go for a stroll,” her father replied, “I have rarely seen such a day in twenty years. It makes you want to freeze the instant and live a lifetime in it.”
Zya smiled, her father had always had a prophetic way with words. She opened her eyes to see him gazing at the distant mountains with the early morning sun blazing slightly above.
“A shame I missed it. A beautiful sight for a beautiful day.”
“There will be others,” Zya replied. “We see so many sunrises in places like this that we are bound to see another.”
Her father sighed ruefully, “But they will not be like this, there is something special here; a quality indefinable. Still, we must move on. Up with you lass, they will be missing us already, despite Cahal's assurances.”
Zya rose gracefully, standing nearly as tall as her father did. She shared some of his looks. The arch of her brow and her assured stance were learnt from her father, traits that were natural to both. The major differences were the eyes and hair. While he was fair in both, she was dark. They were so different and yet so alike. Yet they stood out from the people they accompanied, as they were both taller than the rest.
Father and Daughter ascended the rise with an ease that resulted from many miles walked over the years. The sun blazed in the azure heavens, and the riot of colour that resulted from such a fine day was enough to move anyone. The regret was plain in the face of both father and daughter, and as they walked back to the camp they talked about nothing else. It was as if they felt they belonged to that moment, a moment of utter contentment.
As they crested the rise, Cahal returned to his spot just outside the camp. From the crest, the whole camp could be seen, for it was not big. Four brightly painted wagons that doubled as homes were drawn up in a semicircle around the remains of last nights cook fire. The draft horses were picketed where the food was plentiful, and even they seemed full of spirit as if the grass they had eaten had rejuvenated them somehow. This was a normal camp for the travellers. Best known to the commoners as the tinkers, they would travel from village to village repairing and mending for payment. The payment was not high, and the quality always good. Through this the travellers gained a good reputation, and were generally accepted anywhere in the land. Though pots and pans was the normal type of ware to be fixed, Zya had heard that her father had joined the group in return for him aiding them through his knowledge of carpentry. He had never told her why he had chosen this way of life, and she never asked. Zya had always assumed that he would tell her in his own good time. Besides, the work in this group was not difficult and the group had benefited greatly as a result of Tarim's skills. She decided that she was content.
A few people had risen to prepare for their departure, among them the other guard Jaden. He was so similar to Cahal that they could have been twins were it not for the fact that his skin was as akin to night as Cahal's was to day. He grinned as Zya and her father approached; a big, white grin that was completely in contrast to the rest of him.
“Greetings to you on this glorious morn,” he remarked with a flourish of a bow. “It is one I hope never ends.”
“We were remarking on the same thought as we walked back,” replied Zya. “It's as if the world were trying to tell us that there's more to life than this.”
“Speaking of this life, Tarim, you had better find our glorious caravan mistress before she finds you.” Jaden nodded at one of the wagons. “It seems your services as a carpenter extend beyond the villages.”
Tarim sighed. “It's a shame such a perfect moment can't last longer. Still, the sooner we are under way, the sooner we can find another spot like this.”
“And the sooner you help Layric with the axle the sooner we can find such a spot young Tarim S'Vedai,” commented a voice in the doorway of the nearest wagon. Tarim, Zya and the guard all turned toward the woman who stood slightly above them and bowed.
As one, they intoned, “Greetings to you on this summer morn mistress. May the sky guide you.”
“And may the earth show you the way,” she replied, completing the ritual greeting. Tarim grinned, seeming almost boyish in front of the older woman.
“Be assured Venla, the prob
lem is almost fixed.”
Venla smiled back, “Well it's not fixing itself with you stood there; be off with you.”
Tarim moved away to one of the other wagons, Jaden following him with a small bow to the mistress. The title of Mistress was an honorary title given to the matriarch of each group of travellers. The title fitted Venla Chemani well. However the men argued, the decision always ended up hers. However they cajoled, if she had her mind set upon a certain path, they would always end up following it. Venla was more than that though; she was like a mother to Zya and the other two girls who were younger than she was. She had always been there for her, and was one of a few people, her father included, who would always be totally frank with her. A trait Zya had always respected in others. Zya noted Venla's gaze, and followed it after her father.
“Ah, if I were only twenty years younger and not married,” Venla sighed.
If there was any evidence that Venla was past the sixty seasons she claimed, Zya could find no evidence of it on her face. To all outward appearances, the caravan mistress appeared a beautiful middle-aged woman with only a few laughter lines marring her ageless face. Her dark hair hung in the traditional traveller fashion – three small braids, braided together – and her green eyes sparkled as if they were full of mischief, even when she was angry. It was no wonder she had respect from all who travelled with her. Now these eyes were fixed on Zya.
“And I believe you had a couple of chores before we set off too, child.” Knowing her immediate fate was sealed to the joys of the seamstress, Zya nodded with a quick, “Yes, Mother,” and headed towards another of the wagons. Tarim approached a figure bent almost double around the front of one of the wagons. The figure was trying to lift a wheel onto a supported axle, by himself, and almost killing himself in the process. If not for this fact, Tarim would have laughed.
“Layric, tell me when you are finished killing yourself so we can get this done and enjoy the morning.”
The figure grunted once more, let the wheel drop, and then stood up. Layric grinned. “Well if some of us were not off gallivanting with their pretty daughters enjoying the meadows and the streams we might have got this task finished!” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “Though you found a mighty fine place and time to do it,” he added thoughtfully, gazing at the young horizon with the contrast of gold on deep blue.
“Well, what say you?” asked Tarim. “Shall we finish the job before they find us?”
“Aye, lad,” replied the older man.
The two men worked on lifting the wheel into place. It had taken several of them to lift it off the night before so that the axle could be propped up, but now two men were sufficient. Tall, lean Tarim S'Vedai lifted the wheel, while the broader Layric Chemani guided it on.
Layric was a man who had enjoyed the fruits of his wives' cooking through the years, but despite his appearance was very fit and strong, the legacy of years of outdoor experience. He was of a similar age to his wife, but like her did not show it. If one could see past the sheer contentment with life in his eyes, only then would one see the age that rested there. He was determined not to become a 'revered' elder for many seasons yet. He looked the part though. He wore a beard – most uncommon in the active travellers, though much less so with the elders. For this reason, he was often the butt of a joke including the word 'elder'. He showed nothing of his 'elder' side now though. Guiding the wheel onto the axle with Tarim's help, Layric soon had it firmly in place, the wide wooden spokes and broad iron treading looking like they had always been a part of the wagon, never apart from it.
“There, lad,” said Layric with more than a hint of satisfaction. “We got that job sorted easily enough. Why don't you go and check on the horses while I finish up here?”
Breathing heavily, Tarim moved off to where the horses were picketed. “We!” he thought, “Next time he can take the weight.”
Zya frowned, concentrating on the stitching in front of her. Anita, generally acknowledged as the seamstress of the caravan, had been teaching her, and the others her age, the arts of stitching for a few years now. Erilee and Mavra, although younger, had picked up the art as if it were in their blood, whereas Zya needed to concentrate a bit more. The current stitch they were learning was so complex and yet subtle that it could not be seen once completed, even on a tear across fabric. Although not a natural like the younger girls – Erilee was only sixteen seasons – Zya stuck to the task with a dogged determination, and was nearly as successful.
Anita turned over a piece of fabric. “You see?” she held up the cloth to the girls. A while back she had torn it in half but now it seemed whole again, appearing completely repaired. “This is the one that they like the most. No villager has any idea of how we stitch it; well no villager I know of anyway.”
“Isn't it just a case of unravelling the stitching to see how it is done?” asked Mavra.
“Absolutely not,” replied the seamstress.
“If they unravel the stitching at any point it will all come apart. The secret is in how we stitch in the first place. Always remember, knowledge comes from creation, not destruction. It is not the natural way to learn by tearing things apart.”
As usual, Zya kept quiet during these conversations. The small plump old lady had a lot to teach people, and many of her standards had been set by what she had learnt from Anita. She did not have her heart in her work today. Her early sojourn had left her with the feeling that a day like today was special One that should not be missed by chores inside.
It seemed to Zya that fortune had smiled upon her when her father poked his head inside the bright drapes that served as a door on such a warm day. “Honourable seamstress, may I have permission to take your girls out into the glorious morning to assist them with the chores of horse saddling?”
Tarim grinned, an infectious grin that had had everybody smiling back for nearly twenty years.
“It is nearly time to be moving, and the girls will have plenty of time to learn as we move today” Anita replied with a resigned look on her face. It seemed Tarim had won again, for now.
“My thanks, pretty,” Tarim added. With a flush creeping around her neck, the seamstress shooed them all out into the brilliant sunshine of the morning.
The three young women followed Tarim to where the horses were picketed. Zya was relieved to once again be out in the open where she felt that she belonged. She glanced at the other two. Both Mavra and Erilee were travellers to the bone. They preferred to ride in the wagons, but the mistress had insisted that they learn the skills Tarim could teach them. It was the skill of riding that Zya excelled in. For years now, she and her father had ridden alongside the wagons on horses they received in payment for their work. The two horses, both roan stallions, were not suitable as draught horses, and so Tarim had taught his daughter how to ride.
The reluctance for this task showed on both their faces and Zya felt regret for them. Through their reluctance they were missing a wonderful opportunity. The freedom of riding was a release of the spirit, making her one with the horse. The problem was a horse could sense its riders' unease. Zya's other regret was that because the horse could feel how they felt; they would never really benefit from learning how to ride. They would never know what it was truly like. Still, as she did with the sewing, they both kept to their chores. Zya had heard Mavra comment once that if Zya could do anything they could, then the reverse must also be true. A snide comment, but one Zya appreciated as it showed she was learning well.
The picketed horses were away from the fire, in a meadow that had plenty of food. As Zya had noticed earlier, the horses were very spirited.
“They seem full of energy this morning,” Tarim commented, stopping to pat the glossy shoulder of Aroham, the largest of the draft horses, who was normally placid. Tossing his mane, Aroham snorted, his powerful muscles rippling under his shaggy coat. “Well there's little use in standing admiring the morning. Let's get them brushed through, saddled and hooked up.”
“My fathe
r,” thought Zya with a smile, “Ever the man to do a chore when a chore needs doing.”
In truth, the saddling and attaching of the draft horses to the wagons was not that big a chore and the sun had only risen a hand's width higher by the time all was ready to go. The younger girls, if not confident riders, had at least developed an affinity with the draft horses and cared deeply for them; a legacy of many generations depending on these solid, dependable horses to pull their wagons.
Out of respect for the earth, the camp was cleaned to the point that it looked like nobody had ever been there; the only signs of habitation being where the horses had eaten the meadow-grass during their stay. The procession moved slowly out; four brightly coloured wagons proclaiming the tinkers trundled slowly along the dried earth track that followed the distant stream. Venla, the mistress, always being at the head of the procession, drove the first wagon with her husband. The seamstress Anita and her husband Gwyn followed them. The third wagon was driven by Gren the cook. He was a quiet man, unassuming and private. But he could tell a story to captivate the listener, and bawdy jokes to leave any ears present flaming with embarrassment. He was useful in more ways than one, as many times they had been weeks between villages, and his stories and jokes kept the spirit high and the mind interested. Jani D'Voss drove the final wagon. He was the pot mender, the worker of metal. Between him and his wife Ramaji there was not a pan that couldn't be mended. They were the parents of Erilee and Mavra, and had the largest wagon; pulled by two draft horses as opposed to the other wagons that only used one.
The Focus Stone (The Tome of Law Book 1) Page 3