Ages of Wonder

by Julie E. Czerneda

  “Take it easy.” The captain took her shoulders, holding her steady even as he commanded her efforts. “Let it go a bit at a time. You can do it. You have been trained for it.”

  Kaimi felt reason starting to return. She had been trained for it. It didn’t matter than everyone had given up on her—that she herself had given up hope of ever becoming a true magis. Whatever the cause—she had power now, and a thousand lives were hanging on her next action.

  For a wild moment, she wanted to let go—to let the sea take them all.

  Yes, the academy would welcome her now that she had proven her power. She was sure of it. But she didn’t want to go back; she didn’t want that life, those chains. She didn’t know whether to laugh at the irony of it, or cry at her sudden loss of freedom. With power, she’d become the bargaining chip her father had always wanted to play.

  She shivered under the taunting waves as they rushed over her mind offering freedom from entanglement. All she had to do was let go.

  Shrugging out of the captain’s hands, Kaimi stepped forward. In the midst of the ship’s company, she was alone.

  Up in the tops, a single man started to sing.

  The tune was out of place on the unmoving deck, only sails furling or unfurling tended to bring out the sounds of the sea. As the tune picked up more voices, it seeped through her panic, calming her muscles. She recognized the song as one often sung by the topmen to the ship. Respect. Duty. Honor of work well done.

  This time the song was for her.

  Struggling under the weight of newfound power, tears welled in Kaimi’s eyes. They trust me. A stranger among them, yet they trusted her to bring them through. A trust that she, like her mother before her, could not refuse.

  Resonating with the offered support, Kaimi released her grip on the wave, sinking with it until only music remained.

  It took several days for the Seadragon to make repairs, and to regain full steerage capacity. Kaimi missed most of the action, confined to her cabin by exhaustion and weakness. On the fourth day, she regained the deck in time to see the newly patched sails set. Captain Aurus called out orders as needed, chatting amicably with Makane between times. They both turned as she came onto the deck. Heat rising on her face, Kaimi looked away, catching view of the enemy ship to starboard.

  At her back, the captain chuckled. “Be easy. I refused to let the seamen greet you with a barrel of ale. Said you weren’t used to ship celebration.”

  When Kaimi turned, Captain Aurus had a small smile on his face. He motioned her to join them. “I’m giving Makane command of the Raiden,” he said. “He’ll be taking the ship and prisoners back to Shoteth. If you want to return, you can have a place with him. He’ll see you safe to any academy of your choice.”

  For a moment, she wanted to say yes. Wanted to go back and prove to everyone back at Lake Kelyar that she wasn’t powerless. But would they even believe me? If she returned to the academy, she’d be able to show them nothing. Her power wouldn’t score the lake at all. Even if she could, would she ever feel like she belonged? They had already shown that they cared more about power than partnership. She wanted no life like that.

  “I have a sea-born power,” she started, then hesitated. Around the deck, members of the ship’s crew worked busily, though she had a feeling it was more make-work while they strained to hear the conversation.

  “I suspected as much. It’s why you called the wave and didn’t halt the rain,” the captain said, nodding for her to continue.

  “It seems a power useful to a life aboard ship. I’d need training, but the journey to Traeis will take a dozen more ten-days.”

  “So you want to continue to Traeis? You can—”

  “There’s a naval academy there, is there not?” Kaimi broke in, her voice growing loud. The sea picked up her nervousness, and the ship shuddered.

  She met the captain’s eyes with a deep-held breath. After a moment, he swept his hand outward to take in the full length of the ship. “There’d be a lot more to learn. As I’ve said before, it’s not just about power. It’s not an easy life, especially for a woman. You’re far and few between on great ships—you’d face a lot of dissent, and not always from the Gida.”

  “But right here and now, I can make my own decision,” Kaimi said. “I know it won’t be perfect—but it would be my life, and a life of honor. I want to protect Shoteth, but I want to do it my way. I’ve noticed you take each person on the ship for their own. You accepted me as a governor’s daughter. Will you accept me among you?”

  The captain shook his head. “That is for the Admiral at Traeis to decide—you are the governor’s daughter after all. I wish it could be my decision, but you must know the ramifications of your actions go far beyond this small patch of ocean.”

  Kaimi sighed, knowing his words for truth. She might have power, but her father had connections.

  “Of course,” the captain added, with a smile. “Considering our orders are to take over the Gidan settlements off Cape Meridon, I can’t imagine the Admiral refusing your offer at such a precipitous time.”

  THE COLONIAL AGE

  Filled with hope for a better life, some fleeing persecution, many people undertook the long and dangerous journey across the Atlantic to make a fresh start in the New World. They found a strange and wondrous land, offering promise, potential, and peril, including its own inhabitants. It was a time of first encounters and lasting, profound change to the face of humanity, even for those who’d chosen to stay, or were left behind, in the Old World.

  Blood and Soil

  Ceri Young

  Andreas comes to us while we are asleep to tell us there are men coming.

  We are most often asleep now, but Andreas comes and tells us things anyway. He is hoping we can still hear him, hoping we will respond.

  “They are building a road here,” he said. “In this part of the forest. They will go through and cut down the trees and make a route that goes from here all the way to Chebucto. They will be able to bring troops back to fight the Indians. They will bring supplies. It will be a good thing for the town,” he says to me. He does not say, “But maybe not a good thing for us,” even though I hear it in his voice. He is worried. He is worried that it is happening again.

  “You do not need to worry, though,” he tells us. “I will be helping to build the road. I will help them build it so that it does not come too close to here. You will never even see the men. I will keep them away. This time.”

  Every time Andreas comes I try to move for him, to show him I hear and I understand. This time I try harder than ever, because I want to tell him that it is all right and that I am not worried. I am not afraid of the men and their axes, I want to say. But I still cannot move. I stay asleep. Andreas waits for a long time to see if anyone has heard him. He waits until the light is almost gone and he will have to go home in the dark. Then he sighs and says goodbye.

  I would say goodbye, if I could.

  After Andreas goes, I think more about the road and what it means. When we first came here, there were no roads. There were only footpaths between the houses. This suited us, for we had come to the new world to be alone. Now the town is growing. Roads mean travelers, and travelers mean less isolation. That is fine if the men do not come here looking for us. Andreas says we are safe. I believe my brother.

  It was the men who made us leave Germany. Traditionally, the Baumenvolk have been called the luck of the forest. We travel to villages around and test the soil. We say which farmlands need to rest, what will grow best where.

  One year, the crops failed. It was not our fault; there was a drought. But that did not matter. The men came to our village. They called us witches, accused us of waylaying travelers and cast a thrall over the men in our family. Then they set fire to our village. They drove us out. They killed my mother and father.

  Then they began hunting those who escaped.

  It was Andreas’ idea to come here. He heard the offer of land in the new world. Andreas said,
men will not bother us there. The new world is vast, he said. We will have our own land. It will be far away from everything, and they will leave us be. We will be safe.

  I think this is why Andreas visits me so often. He is the reason I am here. He thinks it is his fault that I cannot wake up. He blames himself.

  But Andreas is the reason I am alive. Back in the old country, he saved me from the men of our village. He woke me up, silenced me, ran with me into the forest to hide when they came with their torches. He helped me to find the members of our family who had run away. Later, Andreas saved us on the ocean, too. On the ocean, you cannot touch the earth, not for weeks or months. That is death for our kind. Andreas is clever, though. He fashioned a special pair of wooden shoes for each of the women. They were deeper than the ones most people wear, and into these he put a quantity of soil from our homeland. They were awkward, but they would keep us alive.

  The shoes would also keep our nature hidden from people who might accuse us of witchcraft. We had left behind the men who killed our family, yet we did not know who might share their prejudices. Until we reached the new world, our roots must remain a secret.

  It was a cold, wet day when we set out. All around us, people were saying their goodbyes to loved ones. Our goodbyes were silent ones—to the land, and to our dead. We joined hands and prayed for their souls. I wished that my parents were there to send me off. I even imagined I saw them in the crowd, but that was foolish. If they had not been killed, we would not have had to leave.

  When we launched, I felt as if my heart had been torn from me. I watched the land recede from the crowded deck. It was not long before I could see nothing but water all around me. It made me feel sick.

  How can I express the horror of the journey that followed? I think we would never have left had we known what was ahead. We were all sick, with the rolling of the sea and with the poor rations we were given. The food was rotten, the water stank. The hold where we slept was nothing but bare floors and bunks. We were crowded together with others on the ship. We took the farthest bunks we could get against the wall, placing the men between us and the rest of the crew while we slept, for a little privacy, to stay hidden.

  Our feet hurt in the shoes, and the soil in them grew dry and crumbly. Even after I had eaten, I would still be hungry. No, that would be true anyway, for there was never enough to eat. But it was as if I had another hunger, a void that food could not fill, that could only be filled by walking on fresh soil. Then the fever hit.

  On our ship there was a man who played minister to the sick. He was not a minister, but he knew many sermons, and he would read to the sick and pray with them. We did not like him. He was nosy and proud, always telling people what to do. He listened to gossip and passed secrets, causing fights among people who were already angry and tired from hardship.

  When Dorothea fell sick, he insisted on coming and praying with her. Since the man caused argument when he did not get his way, we felt we could not say no. But Andreas and I both watched closely while he sat with our sister.

  Dorothea was delirious by then, not knowing what she said or to whom. So when the man came and took her hand, she took him for a relative. “My feet are hurting,” she said. “You must take off these shoes.”

  Andreas gently refused, but the man did not listen, saying that the sick must be humored. He reached for Dorothea’s feet and had the shoe off before Andreas could grab his hand. Feeling the earth torn from her, Dorothea gasped, and began to struggle. Andreas tried to put the shoe back on, but not before the man saw her feet. Below the knees, the skin becomes brown and bark-like. The feet taper to points, and the soles of the feet, pale and white, reach out searching for the soil. I rushed to put the shoe back on before my sister’s thrashing attracted any more attention. Andreas dealt with the man.

  He knew exactly what we were. He did not seem afraid, but looked from my sister to me. A smile played about his lips. I knew he was thinking of who he might tell this new bit of gossip. Andreas spoke to him, saying that there were reasons our nature must be kept secret, and entreating the man to come somewhere with him where they might talk privately.

  When Andreas came back, he was alone. The man, he said, had gone onto the deck. He never came back.

  I do not like to think about it. He was not a nice man, but he did not deserve to die. But if he had not, my family would be dead.

  The seas were rough that night. He may have fallen overboard.

  Hardships were all but forgotten when we sighted land.

  From the harbor, Malagash was exactly what we had been promised. The land was lush with forest and field. It was so beautiful. When we finally docked, I wanted to kick off my shoes and run to touch the fresh earth, but Uncle Jacob grabbed my arm and held me back before I had even left the boat. I turned to him, angry at being stopped, but he pointed at the shore.

  There were people all along the docks who had come down to meet us. They wanted to see the new settlers.

  “We do not know who to trust,” my uncle said. “You must hide a little while longer.”

  I came very near to pushing him into the harbor.

  It was hours before we had been allowed off the boat, hours more before we were given our plot of land. Hours of walking and fidgeting and wanting to kick the shoes off despite the warnings. All of the women were the same, and we stayed together talking, keeping our minds from what we most wanted.

  Finally, finally, our family had a small shelter where we could be alone. Finally, all of the women together took off their shoes, and together touched the land for the first time. When I sank my roots deep into the soil, I felt as if I had come to life again. The land was good, the earth rich, and it did not taste so very different from our homeland soil.

  We could not have known how different it would be.

  The first year was difficult. We were told that we would be given fifty acres of land each, and more for bringing a family. But when we arrived, it was to find a town surrounded by a palisade wall. There were Indians in the area, we were told, and they were violent. The British military had set up blockhouses in order to protect the town and the roads leading to it, but small groups and lone travelers were often attacked. People very rarely went outside the town walls, and when they did it was in groups, and with guns.

  This was a blow. We faced danger from outside the town, but perhaps more danger from inside it. We could not know who we could trust with our secret. We women had to keep our shoes on during the day as we went about our work. Even at home we needed to be very careful. People visited the house often, stopping in unannounced. We had to keep ourselves carefully hidden.

  It was the British government who came to our rescue. Malagash was set up to provide food for the growing town of Chebucto, and if we stayed within the walls we would not have enough food for ourselves, let alone another town. To encourage us to move onto the land, they set up more blockhouses, and gave us the materials to build protected houses. The raids, they said, were not as bad as they had been made out to be. If all of our family lived and worked the land together, they said it would be safe.

  So we built a house as far from the town as we dared, surrounded by a large wall to keep out intruders. Always at night, someone would be up, watching for attack. The militia, and the soldiers from the blockhouse, visited often. Still, off on our own, we could walk around without our shoes. The women, who had grown weak on the voyage, who were kept weak the year we stayed in town, grew strong again. Our farm prospered as well, for we knew how to work the land, what to plant and where. For the most part, we had the freedom and isolation that we sought.

  That was before the illness came. That was before the men came to build their road.

  I wake late at night, days after Andreas has visited. It is not fair. I wish I could tell him that we mostly wake at night now, and perhaps he would stay and talk to us. Yet, even if I could tell him, the woods at night are dangerous for him, and he might not be able to find his way home in the dark.


  It is almost worse when I am awake. I can move, but I cannot move. If I leave this place, Andreas will not know where I have gone, and I will not be able to tell him. I would lose my sisters and cousins who are asleep around me. I would be truly lost then.

  I hope sometimes that I will stay awake. I imagine that I have finally learned to live with the land, and that it will not reclaim me and root me to the spot, as it has done. But always, no matter how hard I hope and pretend, I feel the need growing in me to send down my roots. And I fall asleep again.

  Tonight I am not the only one who awakes. Shortly after I begin moving around the grove, Dorothea begins to stir. I can hear her branches moving in the wind. I go to stand next to her, to hold her hand as she opens her eyes. They are hard to pick out among the bark that is her face. I cannot believe that this thing, now more tree than woman, is my sister. I cannot believe that the land has done this to us.

  Dorothea is younger than I am. She too has heard the worry in Andreas’ voice, and it worries her. “If they bring the road here, with their axes, they may kill us,” Dorothea says. “Andreas is afraid of this.”

  “Andreas will change where the road goes,” I explain to her. “He will make sure we are safe. He always does.”

  “Andreas,” she says angrily, “is the reason we are here. Andreas is the one who brought us safe out of our homeland to die here.”

  Some of us are like this—blaming Andreas and the other men for bringing us here. They brood while they sleep, and they grow bitter and angry. Others of us live in hope that one day we will walk free again. But it is hard to keep up hope the longer we are here.