Melforger (The Melforger Chronicles)

by David Lundgren

  “Their word for a musician,” said Tarvil. He turned back to Tiponi. “Have you met our griot before?”

  “Those fetumu who died there,” began Tiponi, “they were taking me somewhere in the forest. Your griot knew who I was and gave me this gift. I escaped this morning.”

  “What do you mean he knew who you were?” asked Raf. “Who are you, Tiponi? Someone important?”

  Tiponi gave a scowl, as if angry with himself, and then turned away. Bolyai had sat up, giving the iMahli a strange, intense look.

  “We’re all friends here, Tiponi,” encouraged Tarvil. “You have nothing to fear from us.”

  Tiponi shook his head firmly. “It is not fear, forester. I owe you my life, but it is not for me to say who I am. Please, do not ask me to do this thing.”

  Not for him to say who he is? Raf thought. What’s that supposed to mean?

  As if echoing Raf’s thoughts, Orikon gave a half-smile and said, “Who but you can say who you are, iMahli?”

  Tiponi ignored him.

  “He’s not allowed to say who he is because it puts certain other people in danger. Am I right, Tiponi?” Bolyai sounded uncharacteristically excited and the others turned to look at him. “I’ve never met one before. Excellent!” Bolyai broke into a delighted smile. “Tiponi is a go-between!”

  The iMahli’s expression turned to utter dismay. “How do you know this?” he spat. His whole body tensed, and it seemed to Raf that he was steeling himself to either attack them or run away.

  “Just a good guess, friend.”

  “This is…” Tiponi’s voice cracked with emotion. “This cannot happen! No-one can know this! I cannot betray my Trust!” He held out his hands imploringly to the group, his breathing ragged.

  “Calm down, go-between. Your secret is safe with us,” replied Bolyai.

  “Safe? How can I trust you?”

  “Well, for one thing, we saved your life. You owe us a debt, my friend. Secondly, I am a Forest Elder.”

  “You? You are ishranga? This is how you know these things?”

  Bolyai nodded and Tiponi touched his fingers to his forehead in an oddly reverent way.

  “Elder, what is an ishranga?” asked Tarvil.

  Raf closed his mouth, relieved his father had beaten him to asking the question.

  “An iMahli Elder. Tiponi is the link between the tribe and their ishranga. The reason he’s so worried is because no other iMahlis, apart from the go-betweens, know where these ishrangas are. Being hidden keeps them safe from harm.”

  “Why would someone want to hurt an Elder?” asked Fergus, horrified.

  “Well, boy,” replied Bolyai, “in iMahliland, ishrangas are the carriers of the tribes’ lore and traditions. They are important and dearly respected.”

  “You speak truth,” said Tiponi.

  “Ishrangas are respected and very powerful,” continued Bolyai. “I’ve heard that they can do mysterious things, and have access to ancient knowledge, but their secrets are closely guarded - that’s what this ‘Trust’ is. And that’s why I want to speak to a certain ishranga I’ve heard of about a cure. I feel sure they will have the answer.”

  “Have you met one before?” asked Raf.

  Bolyai shook his head. “They are well hidden and fiercely protected. Perhaps that is why they have lasted this long.”

  “It is so,” said Tiponi. “Until now. A month ago, two go-betweens were taken. A week later, their ishrangas were dead. I must warn all the others, which is why I must return home to Dandari.”

  “Dandari, you say?” said Bolyai intently. “Now there’s a coincidence. I’m seeking an ishranga quite near Dandari. One called Shima’sidu.”

  Tiponi’s eyes widened completely at the name. “I… I cannot talk of this!” He scrambled to his feet and stood staring up the path, his body absolutely rigid.

  . . . . . . .

  Far behind them, where the paths forked, silence finally settled again and the dust from the collapsed ground was cleared away by the afternoon breeze. A herd of wild saanen wandered out through the undergrowth and onto the path, nibbling away at shoots growing around a thick banyan.

  One of them lifted its head, eyes flickering to the gaping crevice further up the path; a soft rustling could be heard coming up from inside. It edged closer to the noise, its short tail twitching nervously behind it. A particularly loud crack was heard, and as one, the entire herd’s heads sprang up, all eyes turning to stare intently at the hole.

  Nearest them, some long roots went taut over the side of the dark pit and then quivered slightly in the dirt. In a flash, the saanen erupted in panic and scrambled backwards to disappear into the safety of the brush.

  28. BLUE

  “Oy, time to go,” said Tarvil, nudging his son.

  Raf’s eyes had grown too heavy to resist a quick nap. He was unused to eating such a big meal in the middle of the day. The Luanchester Foreman had returned the evening before from the Overcouncil and when the little Eirdale group had arrived late that morning, they were greeted by a small, enthusiastic crowd singing a gretanayre and were then ushered in to a hastily prepared feast in their honor. Yawning, he walked with Tarvil to where the others waited and slung his bag up onto the back of the wagon.

  Orikon patted his shoulder. “Good luck. Bring back a cure.”

  Fergus pushed past to wrap Raf in a tight hug and then stepped aside to let Tarvil by.

  “Try not to get yourself into too much trouble and we’ll see you in a few days, yeah?” Raf smiled nervously at him. “You’ll be fine. You may not get a sojourn after this, so make the most of it.” A flicker of a smile crossed Tarvil’s face. “And try to stay in the Elder’s good books.”

  Bolyai picked something out of his teeth. “Come on,” he muttered. “We have miles to go before sunset.”

  Orikon passed Raf a small wooden container. “Here’s some shea butter. It’s what the canopy farmers use when they start working in the sun. Make sure you put it on every day until –“

  “- you start looking like Tiponi,” chuckled Tarvil.

  “- until you’re used to it,” said Orikon.

  Raf laughed, despite himself and then took a breath. “All right, then.”

  Bolyai clicked his tongue and, with the addition of another goat from the Foreman of Luanchester, the team of saanen moved forwards slowly. Raf turned one last time to wave at the group standing behind, and then jumped up on the back of the wagon with Tiponi. The sound of the farwelayre drifted up to them from behind and faded as they rolled out of earshot.

  . . . . . . .

  Knock knock knock.

  “Foreman!”

  The Foreman got up from his desk and opened the Council room door. He stared down at the sweating face of a familiar student who was standing there, ashen-faced.

  “What is it, Cisco?”

  The boy was holding a tiny birch paper note in his hand. “Foreman, I’ve been looking after the dovecote since Orikon left and a message has just come through from someone called Tunit in Three Ways.”

  “The apprentice carpenter? What does it say? Is it about the Festival? Or the crossroads?”

  “No, sir. It’s about something that’s happened with a villager. Someone called Stan Dawsley’s been arrested.”

  “Dawsley? What do you mean ‘arrested’?”

  “Sir, he says that Miernan soldiers did it.”

  “What?” said the Foreman. “Arresting a Council member? Miernan soldiers can’t do that!” He paced back and forth. “What is Allium up to? And Stan Dawsley of all people?” He clenched his fists behind him and stared out the window at the fading sunset.

  “Foreman?”

  “Ring the chimes, Cisco; I need my Council here right now.”

  . . . . . . .

  The saanen jostled into each other, bleating urgently as they tried to get out of the way of the two approaching men. Tarvil and Orikon marched quickly up through the darkening village to the sequoia chambers and paused outside the entr
ance as they heard an argument in full swing inside. Tarvil gave the tall hunter standing next to him a wry look. “Another cheerful meeting, it seems,” he said.

  Orikon grunted and pressed forward through the doorway. The Council looked up as they entered and the bear-like Foreman instantly launched into the gretanayre with enthusiasm. When the singing had finished, he gestured for them to take their seats around the massive table in the room.

  “Evening. I know you’ve only just arrived back from Luanchester, but I’m afraid there’s more news from up north.”

  Tarvil smiled faintly at him. “With all that has happened this past week, I don’t suppose we should be surprised at more gripping developments.”

  Leiana gave him a brief hug and then angrily said, “Even though the coterie up there has apparently been closed, we’ve had a message snuck through from Three Ways telling us that Stan Dawsley has been arrested.”

  “It would seem,” added the Foreman, “that Councilman Dawsley was attempting to make his way here when he was stopped by Miernan soldiers and forcibly returned to the village. The message doesn’t give us much more information other than that.”

  “So do we think that Allium has somehow hired himself some Miernan military heavies?” asked Tarvil. “Just to make sure his Festival is a success? It seems a little extreme.”

  “Of course it is,” said Dalton from the other table end. “It’s more likely that this is all a huge misunderstanding. Allium wouldn’t think of bringing Miernan soldiers into all this.”

  Leiana and Dr Allid challenged him on this before the Foreman raised his hands and shouted, “Quiet!” They stopped and sullenly turned to him. “Personally, as much as I want to wring Allium’s neck with my own bare hands, I believe we must give him the benefit of the doubt until we see something more solid than a pigeon message. Relationships are strained enough between Eirdale and Three Ways as it is.“

  “But Miernan soldiers? Arresting foresters?” said Leiana. “They have no authority here! We need to confront him!”

  “But we must be careful,” urged Tarvil. “This letter that Dawsley has been ‘arrested’? But what does that mean? And it seems a poor reason to arrest someone just for travelling south. Maybe he was stopped from doing something unlawful? We must know more about it!”

  The Foreman cupped his chin pensively. “I think I have to agree with you on this. We mustn’t presume too much, despite Allium’s Festival betrayal and this nonsense with cutting down the Ancient. Travel is hazardous now and, for all we know, he may have sent messengers to us who couldn’t get here. Perhaps the barricade was erected for that reason.”

  “Without any evidence, that seems more likely,” agreed Dalton. “We can hardly base everything on some brief note from this young boy. Personally, I’m more worried about finding a cure for the trees. I’ve had three more reports of new rotten patches since yesterday!”

  The Foreman pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Everything rests on this expert he knows. If their journey is unsuccessful, all our other troubles - including these hassles with Three Ways – are going to be obsolete.”

  Tarvil nodded. “Well, they’ll be back in a few days. Until then, there is nothing we can do about that, so let’s try to get word to this Tunit in Three Ways and see if we can find out more.”

  . . . . . . .

  Voices woke Raf up and he realized he’d fallen asleep again from the gentle rocking motion of the wagon. He opened his eyes to see Bolyai and Tiponi deep in discussion in front.

  “– but it left this wound to remind me,” finished the bhesanté, tapping his shoulder.

  “Wait, how did you get that?” asked Raf.

  “Ah, the energetic youth awakes from his second nap of the exhausting afternoon riding on a wagon,” said Bolyai dryly.

  Raf smiled and stretched. “No seriously, how did you get it, Tiponi?”

  The iMahli reached around to run his hand along the long wound on his shoulder. “I was hunting with some others from my village when the fetumu attacked us. I, alone, escaped and hid in a tree. The branch I was in, it broke underneath me. The edge of the branch made this.”

  “Oooh,” groaned Raf, shuddering.

  “It is not a good injury. I tried to find the healer in Dombonyoka, but the fetumu tracked me and caught me. They took me through the forest. To your village, first. Lucky for me.”

  “Oh.”

  Raf lay back and gazed around idly at the scattered rays of hot sun piercing the canopy, before reaching over and taking the paodrin from its pouch next to Bolyai. He held it to his lips, put his fingers in place along the various holes, and played. He stared, mesmerized, at his fingers which danced in front of his eyes as if they had taken on a life of their own.

  He couldn’t say how long he had played for, but some time later he finally stopped and returned it distractedly to the pouch, stretching his cramped neck.

  “You are good,” said Tiponi. He nodded his head at the paodrin. “What is that instrument?”

  “Um… it’s the Elder’s,” replied Raf. “And I’m not that good, really.”

  Bolyai watched him out of the corner of his eye as he lounged against the side of the driver’s bench, running his fingers through his thin wisps of beard. Glancing at the path in front of them, he looked out at the sinking sun and then, with a tug on the reins, called the goats to a halt.

  “Dinner,” he said in response to Raf’s questioning look. “An early night, and then tomorrow we will set off at dawn and hopefully reach Dandari by nightfall.”

  He dismounted from the wagon and dug around in a sack attached to the railing. He pulled out two dead wood pigeons and threw them down at Raf’s feet. “Prepare these.”

  “I don’t think my knife’s sharp enough, Elder. I blunted it quite badly recently.” He realized that the Elder probably didn’t know about the incident with Wesp and quickly continued. “I normally sharpen it using Dad’s whetstone, but I didn’t bring it with me, sorry.”

  “What are you on about?” said Bolyai. “Just use any stone.”

  “A stone? But I told you, I didn’t bring any, I nor-” Raf stopped. The Elder was pointing a finger at the ground.

  “A stone from… Are we… do you mean…” Raf stared down at the ground in bewilderment. There were stones scattered everywhere! Then he looked up and saw that all around them, stretching away as far as he could see in any direction were trees. Small trees. There wasn’t an Ancient to be seen. They were out of the Forest.

  “You are now standing on the border with iMahliland,” said Bolyai.

  “Over there are the Dombonyoka Hills. Past them, you will be in my land,” said Tiponi.

  Raf stood and stared at them, a blush creeping up his face. His hand shook as he lifted it up to wipe a sudden sheen from his forehead. “I didn’t even realize,” he mumbled faintly.

  “You were playing the paodrin for an age,” said Bolyai. “But enough now. We need food and water. You will have plenty of time to get used to being out of the Forest.”

  He moved off to relieve himself behind some bushes as Tiponi strolled up the path, scanning the ground, before kneeling down and unearthing a fist-sized rock from the dirt. He walked back to Raf, dusting the rock down, and gave it him.

  Raf took his knife out and set to running the blade carefully up and down the side of the rock, absorbing himself in the task to calm down and settle his thoughts.

  OK. I’m out of the Forest. Actually on solid ground. No Ancients anywhere, just… little trees. This is… incredible.

  By the time he managed to get the knife sharp enough to prepare the birds, Tiponi had set a small fire up and Bolyai was cleaning some strange potatoes he had found. Rather than the small round ones that they occasionally ate in the Forest, these were huge – a foot long each - and a pale red color.

  “If you’re thirsty,” said Bolyai, “I’m sure Tiponi can show you how to find some waterwort nearby. You should learn how to do that now because after the mountain
s, water will become a problem.”

  Raf could only purse his lips in confusion and look at Tiponi blankly. The iMahli gestured for him to follow. They walked down the path until Tiponi grunted and pointed at a tiny purple flower growing up through some dry grass.

  “Shuji. If you find it, there is water under.” As he was explaining, he demonstrated by scooping dirt away in a circle around the flower. “This root comes out.”

  Under the flower was a huge round turnip-like root that Tiponi pulled up. It was surprisingly big - head-sized - and when he cut into it, a succulent cream-colored flesh was exposed. Taking Raf’s knife, he scraped it sideways along the inner flesh of the root until he had a handful of soggy splinters. He squeezed them in his hand over his tilted head, and a line of water trickled into his open mouth.

  He passed the knife back to Raf. “Now you.”

  It was quite easy to do - although you didn’t get a huge amount of liquid out of the handfuls; but it was cool and had the slightest suggestion of sweetness to it.

  It’s not a watervine, but at least it does the job, Raf thought.

  He stood up when he’d finished, and after making sure he could recognize the flower in the future, walked back to the others with the other half of the root for Bolyai. Not long after, Raf was finishing a crispy wing as Bolyai put the fire out and ground up some of the waterwort.

  “How is your shoulder, Tiponi?”

  The iMahli shrugged. “There is pain, but it will heal.”

  “Maybe we can speed it up with some aloe,” said the Elder. “Don’t want it to get infected.”

  He retrieved a small bag from the wagon which had some damp leaves folded inside it. Crushing some of the aloe in his hands, he began rubbing it softly onto Tiponi’s wound. “I know it hurts at first, but this will make it better quicker.” He glanced at Raf. ”Do you remember the haelanayre?”

  Raf nodded vaguely as he stared at Tiponi’s shoulder, failing to notice the peculiar look that Bolyai gave him. The Elder started singing softly and Raf accompanied him, watching the Elder’s hands move gently along the wound. It was an easy, lilting melody and he found his eyes closing as he sang along.