Candlewax

by C. Bailey Sims

  Quor looked at Cyril’s ropes and nodded in approval. “Go slow, or you’ll burn yourself against the rope and risk a fall,” the Speaker said matter-of-factly. “Just let the rope move through your gloves a little at a time. If you twist around don’t panic. And whatever you do, don’t let go.”

  Not a chance, thought Cyril.

  Quor walked backward, letting the rope slide in small spurts around his body. He reached the edge, and keeping his feet on the rock, let his body lean out into the open space. He walked down about five steps. “Begin your descent, Cyril.”

  Cyril looked at Catherine, Menard, Bessie, and Pokos. All of them wore very nervous expressions. He tried to think of something witty to say to break the tension, but nothing came. He swallowed, took a deep breath, and walked backward to the edge. He leaned out over the precipice, keeping his eyes on the rock wall under his feet, and began to walk down.

  “That’s good, Cyril. You look just like a Cinnan! Keep coming.” Quor’s voice echoed.

  Little by little he made his way down the rock face.

  A pebble fell on his head. Cyril looked back up at the small faces peering over the edge. Menard waved.

  “Almost there, Cyril, just a little more,” Quor called out. Cyril looked down. The Cinnan was standing on a narrow outcropping about eighteen feet wide, free of the rope. All around him were several tall, beautifully straight young yew trees.

  “Everything all right down there?” Menard hollered, unseen from up above.

  “You wouldn’t believe the yew trees. They’re magnificent!” Cyril shouted up.

  “Keep your focus, Cyril,” chided Menard.

  Far, far below, Cyril thought he heard the sound of rushing water. He let the rope slip in gentle spurts until his feet reached the outcropping. With weak knees, Cyril disentangled himself from the coils of rope.

  “Will any of these do?” Quor gestured at the yew trees all around.

  “They’re very good, Quor.” Cyril looked in earnest at the trees. “Worth the trip, I’d say.” The bowyers at Candlewax would drool over these. The one next to Quor was about eight inches in diameter and had no branches for ten feet. Cyril made his way to the trunk and felt its reddish bark. He bent down and looked up its length from the base. It was perfect.

  “This one.” He patted the tree trunk. “This is the one. With trees like this, I can’t believe you’ve never made bows in Cinna.”

  “Our civilization has no record of bows,” said Quor.

  After Quor sawed through most of the tree, Cyril tied the rope to it and kicked at the last little bit of bark. The yew snapped free of the stump and spun in the air.

  “Pull it up!” yelled Quor. “Please.” The trunk jerked upward a few inches.

  Cyril could hear Menard calling out, “Pull! Pull!” The branch of the ancient yew supporting the pulley shook fragrant needles down on them.

  “It’s a beauty, Cyril!” Menard called down. “Haven’t seen the likes of this in years. All secure.”

  Quor wound the rope around his forearm and gripped it tight. He looked at Cyril and smiled. “Follow me.” The Speaker ran and leaped off the ledge, swinging over the ravine past the overhang, landing gently on the narrow game trail thirty yards to the side. Cyril watched, breathless, as Quor scrambled up the game trail, all the while hanging onto the rope. “Aim for where I landed. You’ll be fine!”

  Cyril took a deep breath. He was starting to hate the way Quor always told him he’d be fine. He wound his arm and wrist around the rope like Quor had done and burst into a sprint, leaping off the ledge toward the game trail.

  Cyril flew out over the empty ravine, landing just past the game trail. He fought for balance on the rocks, shoving his foot under the exposed root of a shrub. Terrified, he felt his weight shifting away from the wall. With all his strength he willed himself toward the face.

  “Well done, Cyril! Keep moving. It gets easier.” Quor was almost at the top.

  Keeping a firm grip on the rope, Cyril shuffled his way up the trail. Quor had already disappeared. Cyril looked for Menard and the others, expecting to see their faces peering down at him. He couldn’t see anyone. Carefully he made his way to the rim, much slower than Quor had done. His muscles ached with tension and sweat dripped down his face. He rubbed his forehead with his upper arm. Finally he reached the top, heaved himself over the edge, and rolled onto his back, closing his eyes with relief. He opened them, grinning.

  There, pointing straight at his belly, was a long, sharp spear.

  Cyril didn’t move. The grizzled old man gripping the spear wore only a vest made out of fairrier cat skin, exposing a muscled chest matted with gray hair and bare, brawny arms. His pants were shredded and full of holes, and his boots were split at the seams. His face was lined with hard-won age, but unlike Menard’s, it was ravaged and fierce, and bore no trace of humor or kindness.

  Catherine! Cyril carefully raised his head. “Hold!” the old man commanded. “Or I’ll run you through.”

  Cyril looked to his left. Two men guarded Menard and Quor, and a dozen more surrounded Spelopokos, who sat quite still in the middle. Only his hooded, yellow eyes and twitching tail gave away his anger. One man stood in front of Catherine and Bessie, their backs to the giant yew tree. At the sight of them, Cyril allowed himself to relax a fraction. Lying on the ground was the cut log they had just pulled up.

  “He means what he says,” warned Quor.

  “Crossers?” asked Cyril. He scanned the men again, quickly calculating his group’s chances of escape. His eyes met Menard’s. A quick shake of his advisor’s head confirmed it: The prospects were bleak. His gaze returned to Quor.

  “Yes,” mouthed Quor.

  “What’s that you say? Crossers? We are Allianans! Who are you and what’re you doin’ pullin’ up that log?” The man guarding Cyril jabbed at the air near Cyril’s chest.

  “We’re from Lackanay, and we’re trying to get back to Lackanay. The log is for bow staves,” replied Cyril calmly. I have to assure them that we are not their enemies.

  “Lackanay! Did you hear that, men? They want to get back to Lackanay!” said the man in a mocking voice. “Wouldn’t that be nice? Strollin’ into Lackanay?”

  The men laughed cruelly.

  “How did you get those clothes? You can’t be Cinnans. No one ever gets close to them.” The man’s voice turned hard and menacing. This time the spear poked Cyril’s flesh. Cyril looked over at Quor, who shook his head slightly.

  “I suppose I will have to tell you.” Cyril sighed. “Found ‘em. Stole ‘em. Had to run away fast. Almost got caught,”

  The old man’s face softened. “You be lucky. The Cinnans are a strange and powerful people. They disappear quick as you please. Magic they are. They move mountains.” The man lifted his spear. “Get up!”

  Cyril moved carefully to his feet. He noticed that one of the Allianans, a man with wild black hair and a full beard, now wore his crossbow. Cyril glared at him. “I’d like that back,” he said softly. “It’s my bow.”

  “Maybe,” responded the old man, eyeing him coldly. “First we have to kill that fairrier cat and skin it, and then we’ll decide what to do with you.”

  “Killing that cat would be...” Cyril searched desperately for the right words. “...most unwise. You see—”

  “He knows the way back to Lackanay!” Catherine cried.

  The old man’s head jerked up and he squinted at Catherine. When he spoke, his voice quavered. “Is this true? The fairrier cat knows this?”

  “Yes,” said Catherine with apparent satisfaction. “And without him we can’t leave. He won’t harm you if you do not threaten him. I have even ridden upon his back.”

  There was a stunned silence. Then the men laughed until tears ran down their weathered faces. Cyril noticed that all of them were wearing bits of fairrier cat fur here and there. Some wore hats, others wore makeshift coats, and some had wide sashes around their waists. Only the leader kept his composure, his eyes fix
ed on Catherine, a look of distrust and impatience on his face.

  Catherine brushed past the man guarding her, who was still laughing too hard to stop her, and marched straight toward the circle around Pokos.

  “Stop! He’ll kill ya!” shouted one of the guards, lunging at her, but she pushed past. A hush fell on them. They watched in trepidation as Catherine walked up to Pokos and scratched him behind the ear. Pokos suddenly stood up and the men closest to him drew back their spears.

  “Wait! Let us see if this girl can ride the cat!” The command came from the man by Cyril.

  Catherine climbed slowly onto Pokos’s back. She stroked his neck fur. Pokos turned in a circle, eyeing each of the Allianans one by one.

  “I never would have thought it possible... A fairrier cat that can be ridden like a horse!” croaked the leader, his eyes bulging. His men shifted and stared, alarmed.

  “Not like a horse,” said Pokos in a deep, disgruntled voice. The Allianans guarding him jumped back. Pokos laughed.

  “It speaks! What sorcery is this? Tell me now or we’ll lift your skin, Lackanay or no Lackanay!” the old Allianan shouted at Pokos.

  “You fool!” spat Pokos. “Fairrier cats of Lackanay have always spoken. It is not unusual. It is just that Allianans don’t stop to listen or live to tell. Your kind has silenced many voices.” Pokos did not try to veil his contempt. Cyril tensed. If he moved quickly he might be able to take on the old Allianan, but there were too many of the others.

  There was a long silence as the Allianans and Spelopokos stared at one another. The Allianans fingered their spears restively.

  Suddenly Quor spoke up. “You are probably thinking that this cat has a fine thick pelt. But the girl speaks the truth. This cat is from Lackanay, not Cinna. It is his destiny to return home.”

  “Aye, his pelt is fine,” the old man said appraisingly. “It would bring a fortune in Alliana.”

  “You are probably also considering how it would be impossible to bring his skin to market, trapped here as you are in Cinna?”

  “’Twas on my mind,” said the Allianan, looking at Quor with renewed interest.

  “Well then, I am sure you have come to the conclusion that it would be best to let him live. In fact, I would bet on it.”

  The leader nodded. “You be right. There is a time for killin’ and a time for waitin’. I figure that the cat lives—for now. Strange, he looks like the one I saw the other night—cryin’ to the moon; noise led us right to him. It was like he wanted to be found,” he goaded Pokos. “Thought I killed him, but I only found the blood trail. Someone else got them some fairrier cats that night though, didn’t they? Even left us the skins.” He laughed greedily and shook his spear in the air. The others joined in.

  Cyril clenched his jaw as he thought of the Allianans skinning the cat corpses. Pokos’s tail swished wildly and his eyes glared yellow, in spite of Catherine’s frantic stroking. Quor was looking intently at Pokos with unwavering concentration.

  The old Allianan strutted forward and waved in Pokos’s direction. “No one touches the cat unless he forgets what we can do to him. Be a good kitty now, won’t you?” He chuckled.

  Pokos shook Catherine off his back. She scrambled to her feet, her face white with dread. The great cat eyed the Allianan, ignoring the twelve spears aimed at him. “I believe living in Cinna could tempt me to eat Allianans,” he growled. “Perhaps you taste a bit like goat.” The men hoisted their spears, their faces twisted with hatred and terror. Pokos crouched low as if to spring.

  “STOP IT! Stop it right now!”

  All eyes turned to Bessie, who walked without fear into the middle of the crowd and stood with her hands on her hips. “You!” She wagged an accusing finger at the old man. “You’re provokin’ him. And you!” She looked sternly at the cat. “You’re not really going to eat anyone, are you!” Menard, Quor, Cyril, and Catherine looked at Bessie in awe.

  “Oh, put your stupid spears down!” she continued, sauntering boldly up to the leader, whose mouth was hanging open. “We haven’t got time for any of this nonsense!”

  She waved her hand at the men surrounding Pokos. “Is that all you can think about? Killin’ and money? Is that how you were raised?” She grabbed the old man’s spear. It came right out of his fingers. Bessie threw it to the ground, stomped her foot, and scowled.

  Cyril could tell that the man was unsure of whether to be annoyed or amused. At last the old man shook his head and a genuine smile spread across his face, coaxing the wrinkles into deep curves around his lips. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard a woman’s scoldin’,” he murmured. “Feels like a lash, don’t it boys?” He laughed nervously and glanced at Bessie, whose face had not softened in the least.

  “All right, all right!” He raised his hands in exasperation. “Point those spears somewhere else, mates,” he called out to the others. “She’s too much like my wife.” He turned to a wiry old man next to him. “Scary,” he said under his breath. “Captain Felonius Zacharias Spat at your service, ma’am,” he said to Bessie, bowing without taking his eyes off her.

  Bessie gestured for Pokos and Catherine to join her, and the Allianans parted to let them pass. Cyril and Menard moved closer to Bessie until they were able to flank the group. Quor joined them, looking grave as usual.

  “I am Bessie Brine of Swiggins. This here is Catherine, Cyril, Menard, Spelopokos, and Quor.” Bessie pointed to each of them in turn.

  Captain Spat said, “We are the men from the Fortune. Sailed from Alliana twelve years and four months ago to bring back fairrier cat skins from Cinna. Stories were that you could get into Cinna by way of the Memoir Straits. Well”—Captain Spat’s voice went deeper and hardened—“the stories were true. We got into Cinna by way of the Straits and haven’t been back since.”

  He leaned on his spear and looked out over the range, his eyes distant. “You see, our ship burned mysteriously one night, and every time we try to build a new one, it burns right down to the waterline too. There were thirty-seven of us when we set off from Alliana. Full of promise and high hopes we were. Now, we be just sixteen. Cats, cold, and starvation got the rest.”

  Quor studied his feet, his head bowed. Catherine stepped toward Captain Spat. “But you wear the fairrier cat skin!” she interjected.

  “Aye. We learned that after the first winter. Lost nine men to storms and hunger before we killed our first fairrier cat. And the skin don’t keep you from gettin’ eaten by one of ‘em either. No protection at all. The cats go for loners. That’s why we stick together now. That way if they growl we can take down one or two and the rest will scatter. They’d pick us off one by one if we separated.

  “The point is,” the captain continued, his face contorted with a hunger that had nothing to do with food, “if you know a way out of Cinna, we’d like to come with you.” As Captain Spat spoke his men had gathered around. Somehow their faces didn’t look so hard anymore, touched as they were with traces of hope. It was late afternoon and the sun cast a yellowish glow on everything. The temperature was dropping.

  “Perhaps there is a way,” Quor said, thinking aloud. “For now, take that food bag.” He pointed at the satchel that was hanging from a branch of the large yew tree. “I’ll see that you get more. Look for it in this yew tree. Now we must go.”

  Captain Spat’s eyes flew to the food while his men watched his face in anticipation. Spat looked again at Spelopokos and then at his men.

  “And just where do you plan on goin’?” snarled Spat. The captain looked appraisingly at Quor, who had no weapon. Quor doesn’t look all that strong, thought Cyril.

  “Put your spear down again,” said Quor without flinching. “I wish to show you something.”

  Cautiously, the old Allianan lowered the spear until it was resting on top of the icy glaze that now covered the re-freezing slush, not taking his eyes off Quor. The other Allianans looked on, curious. Quor gently closed his eyes, his hands clasped in front, legs spread apart somewhat. The
spear vanished. Quor opened his eyes.

  “You be one of them!” Spat recoiled, pointing at Quor. “You’re Cinnan!” His face turned ashen and his eyes widened.

  Quor bent down, grasped at thin air, and offered Spat the spear in his hand. Spat snatched it back and nearly tripped as he stepped backward.

  “I am Cinnan,” Quor said calmly. “Go now. Return to your camp. The dusk approaches and we must be off. Avoid the other Cinnans. It has never been more important. Now give Cyril back his crossbow.”

  Spat’s eyes met Quor’s. No one spoke. A frigid wind blew up from All Souls Ravine, lifting the old captain’s mane of gray hair into scraggly tendrils. Finally, Spat nodded at the man with the crossbow. Slowly he walked toward Cyril and handed it to him with a pained expression. Cyril took it and slung it across his back.

  Quor started packing up the ropes and pulleys. Menard retrieved the saw and hatchet. Catherine stashed everything into her pack while Bessie stood by Pokos, her hand resting on his powerful shoulders. The Allianans looked on in consternation.

  “Don’t just stand there, Norman! Go get the food bag, you poor excuse for a cabin boy!” Spat glared at the youngest of them, who quickly scrambled up the yew tree to retrieve the food.

  “You there, Pete! Help them with the lines around that log,” barked Spat. Another man immediately sprang into action. In short order, the log was ready for dragging back to Cinna Fortress.

  “We’ll be seein’ you again, then,” Captain Spat nodded at Quor, and without another word turned his back and trudged away, his men falling in silently behind him. Norman, the cabin boy, couldn’t resist looking back at them over his shoulder, food bag swinging to the rhythm of his steps.

  “We must hurry. It is hunting time,” growled Spelopokos.

  * * *

  Catherine saw his yellow eyes and drew in her breath. He’s furious with Quor for offering to help the Allianans.

  Pokos ran from the front to the back of their small procession, sniffing the wind and listening for the sound of weight breaking through the icy crust on top of the slush. Quor walked quickly in the lead. Catherine trudged forward, wishing she could talk to Quor in private. Did he really mean what he said about helping those grubby pelt peddlers get back to Lackanay? Didn’t he see the fairrier cat skins they were wearing?