Candlewax

by C. Bailey Sims

  Bessie appeared properly disappointed. Catherine suspected that she had hoped to cook some real food that night.

  All around them the Cinnans were preparing for the evening, unfurling white canvas tents and unpacking large sacks that appeared to be made of wool. These they flung back and forth in the air until the sacks resembled plump, man-sized grubs. The Cinnans moved together as if they were a dance troupe executing a familiar routine, while the Lackanayans looked on in puzzlement. In minutes, camp was set. The Cinnans formed a line in front of buckets of lavender-hued sludge. Cyril sighed and got in line with Menard and the girls behind him. They were starving.

  After they drank down the cold, salty, beet-and-parsley-flavored slop, Mekrita took Bessie and Catherine to a tent near the center of the encampment and opened the flap, revealing three of the large wool blobs. A tiny oil lamp hung from the center of the tent.

  “They’re beds!” exclaimed Bessie cheerfully, flopping down on top of one. It made a whooshing sound and deflated quickly. Mekrita gave a rare laugh.

  “You’ll freeze like that, Bessie. Let me show you.” Mekrita took off her boots, snow pants, and coat, leaving on her bright blue- and red-striped leggings, socks and top. Then she lifted up the end of another of the beds, exposing an opening and climbing inside.

  “Oh, so that’s how they work.” Bessie smiled at the revelation and crawled inside her bag. Catherine did the same. It was freezing. She scissored her legs back and forth as quickly as she could until the iciness went away.

  “These are actually pretty warm,” said Catherine.

  “Goose feathers. We use them for the inner layer of our coats and snow pants too. Pull the hood around your head and fasten the flap. Keeps your head covered except to breathe.”

  “But who is going to stand guard? Shouldn’t we help?” asked Catherine.

  “Quor has organized shifts of Cinnans,” replied Mekrita. “Cyril and Menard will sleep unless there is trouble.” Catherine was relieved. She didn’t want to think of Cyril standing watch during the long night while she slept. She couldn’t help wondering which tent he was in.

  Restless, she stared at the inside of the tent, listening as the camp grew hushed around them. Then she sat up quickly in the goose-feather bag, pulling the opening tight around her shoulders. “Mekrita, do you think you could teach me how to read thoughts like the Cinnans? I know you can read mine, but could I read yours?” she whispered.

  Bessie rose and leaned on one arm, grinning. “That’s a great idea, Catherine. Do you think she could, Mekrita? I mean, you learned how to speak, maybe we could learn how to think like you.” Mekrita sat up slowly, considering, and the three of them faced one another.

  “We have this ability from the time we are in our mothers’ wombs. My first thoughts were of my mother, and hers was the first mind I knew,” whispered Mekrita.

  “I still want to try! Think of something simple,” urged Catherine.

  “Very well then,” agreed Mekrita solemnly. “I will picture a color in my head. Colors are the easiest concepts to communicate. Colors and shapes. Keep your thoughts quiet and try to think of nothing. Then, open the door of listening.”

  “How can I do that?”

  Mekrita put her fingertips together, thinking. “It feels like you are ready to receive. Like you are reaching out.”

  Catherine thought back to Pokos and how he taught her to smell evil. There are many things that we do not perceive at first.

  Catherine nodded at Mekrita, whose face was a blank slate. The sound of people still stirring outside the tent filled Catherine’s head. She tried to listen beyond the noises. I have to focus. She rolled her head on her neck, trying to loosen her muscles. Nothing. She listened and waited. Something fuzzy brushed her thoughts and flitted away.

  “Do that again. I felt something just now,” she said.

  Mekrita smiled and closed her eyes.

  Catherine felt a rosy pink color flood her thoughts like a warm bath.

  “Pink!” said Catherine, knowing it was true.

  “I did not think you could do it.” Mekrita seemed puzzled.

  “How did you do that, Catherine?” asked Bessie. “I couldn’t tell anything!”

  “I don’t know. Do some more, Mekrita.” In a split second Catherine answered excitedly, “It’s a blue sphere! Now the color red all over, with no shape. Now yellow!”

  Mekrita frowned. “I don’t understand it, Catherine. You are reading the thoughts of those images as I think them, like a Cinnan child would. I see your answers as a mirror of my own thoughts. I wouldn’t have believed it possible,” she murmured.

  Mekrita, Catherine, and Bessie fell silent. Catherine could sense that Mekrita had closed the stream of thoughts that had been flowing between them.

  A minute passed before another question came to Catherine. “Mekrita, how long has Magnus been sacrificing people?” she asked.

  “It started when he killed the great Speaker Beron—a man who refused to burn the ship of the Allianans twelve years ago. Other Cinnans eventually lit the ship on fire, but Beron’s defiance was something that Magnus could not tolerate. He needed to set an example. He gathered up his priests and priestesses and together they executed him. Magnus claimed that he felt the magic of Cinna was strengthened as Beron’s life ebbed from his body, that the enchantment of the Gate became more powerful. Our mountains became more foreboding, and the opening of the Memoir Straits developed a constant, heavy fog.

  “Other Cinnans felt it, too. Then, to the shame of many, it became an annual ritual to sacrifice three Cinnans for protection from outsiders. Magnus fears Lackanay. Many Cinnans caught his fear. He is afraid of the plague of trodliks and therefore everything associated with Lackanay.

  “That is why he despises you and the other Lackanayans—and he especially hates Speakers because we are pledged to help you, Catherine. Just as you are from the line of Tabrekian heirs of the amulet, we Speakers are pledged to help you fulfill the prophecy. Every year he has sacrificed one of our number, even though it is supposed to be a random selection. That is why everyone is—was—so afraid of Magnus and his daughter, because they were afraid they might be chosen for the next sacrifice. That’s why Quor learned how to speak one thing—his true thoughts—and hold meaningless conversations in his mental communications at the same time. We Speakers are learning this, but he is the master.”

  Catherine was aware for the first time how truly oppressive it must have been for the Cinnans to watch every thought, hiding all dissent from Magnus and his priests and priestesses. Or any who would tell on them.

  “How awful,” whispered Bessie.

  “Quor will see to the end of that,” murmured Mekrita. “I am glad you chose to pursue Magnus, Catherine. Menard is right—he will seek to block you. Until we stop him, he is a... ”—she searched for the right word—“a menace.”

  Catherine bit her lip and nodded.

  “Can I ask you why no one ever fought against Magnus?” said Bessie.

  “We are not a violent people. Bloodshed is repulsive to us,” said Mekrita. “It is barbaric.”

  “Magnus’s methods of murder might be cleaner, but they are every bit as deadly,” said Catherine. “And sometimes you have to fight against evil, even if it’s hard.”

  “Just so, Catherine,” whispered Mekrita sleepily. She yawned, rose briefly to blow out the lamp, and settled back into her bag.

  “Good night, Bessie. Good night, Mekrita,” Catherine whispered.

  “Good night,” answered Bessie. Mekrita said nothing. She was already asleep. Catherine was impressed. I wonder if that is a Cinnan trait.

  The next morning Catherine brought up the food line behind Bessie. This time the mixture had an orange cast to it. Carrots. Ugh! She winced as she swallowed the slushy meal, and she ended up tipping most of it into the bushes. In minutes, the Cinnans had packed the equipment. Pokos, who had helped guard the camp the night before, sniffed the wind. Quor and Mekrita stood beside him. Cath
erine approached and rested a hand up on Pokos’s back. Quor stared at her, a puzzled look on his face. Catherine wondered if Mekrita had just told him about her mind-reading lesson.

  “I slept a sound and dreamless sleep last night. Did anything... happen?” asked Catherine.

  “All night long I sensed fairrier cats in the darkness. Their tracks are all around the camp. Why they did not attack, I do not know,” growled Pokos.

  Catherine exchanged looks with Cyril. Bessie turned pale.

  “How many?” asked Menard.

  “Perhaps eight. It is hard to tell. Their scents are mixed together,” explained Pokos. Catherine’s heart raced. The cats were so close.

  Quor’s somber eyes searched Catherine’s as if looking for her innermost thoughts, which of course, he was. “I will go first. Not only can I anticipate what Magnus might do, but with Spelopokos nearby, I shall have a good chance of detecting the fairrier cats.”

  “But you have no defenses against claws and teeth,” said Menard skeptically.

  Quor reflected on this solemnly and separated himself from the others by a few paces.

  “Try to jump at me, Spelopokos,” said Quor. Pokos gave him a strange look and Catherine could sense a mental exchange between the two. Pokos backed up several paces and then rushed forward with a mighty leap. Quor held up his hand and Pokos was deflected in mid air, landing to the side of Quor in a fast jumble of tangled paws. The great cat shook his head as if to clear it and tried again; Catherine noted that this time he had a bit of gold in his eyes. Once again, Quor sent Pokos tumbling to the side—this time into a pile of fallen logs and brush twenty yards away.

  Pokos rose, growling in frustration, and approached Quor again, this time more warily. Quor smiled gently and held out his arms. Glaring, Spelopokos turned and walked into the forest, his tail swishing.

  “Pokos does not understand how he pushed Magnus to the ground, and yet I can thrust him aside. This defense only works if one is forewarned and focused,” Quor explained. “Magnus let his guard down at the Duray Principas because he was thinking only of Pulquin’s shot. Magnus was also afraid of Spelopokos. His mental strength was impeded.” Quor took a water skin by its strap and ran into the forest after Pokos.

  Menard gazed after him and whistled appreciatively. “I had no idea he could do that.”

  Cyril plunged into the forest after Quor. Menard shook his head and followed. The Cinnans began to file after them, laden with the gear that had been miraculously packed in minutes.

  Catherine looked at Bessie. Let’s go, she thought. Bessie smiled at her. “I know you’re thinkin’ ‘Let’s go,’ but that’s because it’s obvious,” she said. Catherine laughed and so did Bessie. You’re right, Bessie, she thought.

  “’Course I’m right. And that’s what you’re thinkin’ now, too. Don’t have to be a mind reader to know that, Catherine.”

  Mekrita was near the end of the line, walking next to a plain-looking Cinnan man. Catherine squinted in the morning sunlight to get a better look. Her stomach growled. I should have eaten that awful carrot gruel.

  “Bessie, let me try your thoughts.”

  “All right, Catherine, but don’t be disappointed.” Bessie giggled, then her face scrunched up in concentration and quickly grew red from holding her breath.

  Catherine reached out with her thoughts, and listened. Nothing. She shook her head and Bessie gasped for air.

  “I was thinking about roast leg of lamb with rosemary and new potatoes.”

  Catherine groaned in hunger. “Try some breakfast thoughts.” Once again Catherine focused on Bessie. She could hear her friend’s footsteps on the path as they pressed forward on the trail.

  “Fresh baked rolls with butter and honey?”

  Bessie shook her head, her face growing purple.

  “Porridge with molasses?”

  Bessie stopped in her tracks and gulped in air. “Poached eggs with melted cheese and parsley,” she confessed. “Toasted bread with butter and raspberry jam. A slice of honeyed ham.....”

  “Stop, Bessie! I wasn’t even close.” For the next hour Catherine and Bessie wound their way among the Cinnans as Catherine threw out her mental net to see what she could catch. It wasn’t pleasant. Occasionally a Cinnan would turn and stare at her, but mostly her efforts were met with stony indifference and she could feel their thoughts recede like waves into the ocean. Not even a complete thought. This is pointless.

  Catherine found a pebble and distracted herself by kicking it as far as she could up the trail until it finally ricocheted off a tree and landed in between two boulders. She sighed and caught herself wishing she could talk to her mother. The thought surprised her. Her mother was very gracious, if a little formal.

  “Anything wrong, Catherine?” asked Bessie.

  “No. Just wondering how we’re going to get the fairrier cats to Lackanay,” she said. Somehow the subject of her mother was too painful.

  “Catherine! Look!” cried Bessie.

  The Cinnans had stopped. Cyril, Menard, and Quor were in their midst. Catherine stumbled forward, her feet moving automatically. Everyone was staring at a vertical twenty-five-foot wall of logs lashed together. Even from where Catherine was standing, she could see deep scratches and gouges up to twenty feet high. Each log had a charred and crudely sharpened tip. A narrow door with leather hinges hung open, its crossbar latch broken. Cyril glanced back at her and before she could protest, he disappeared through the door.

  Catherine pushed her way through the crowd to the door, only to run into Cyril’s chest. He grabbed her by the shoulders, his face full of alarm and sympathy.

  “What is it?” she whispered. His eyes were boring into hers, willing her not to press past him.

  “Three or four dead men. It’s hard to tell. Their bones have been torn apart, not much left, just a foot... the skulls.” A drop of sweat dripped down the side of his temple, even though the air was chilly.

  “Were they Cinnans?”

  “Hard to say.” Menard moved to stand just behind Cyril, his face pale. “Just a few scraps of clothing left. From what I can see, there might have been a couple of Cinnans. Shreds of white and purple cloth. But then there are some scraps of worn muslin and a fairrier cat belt, too. Could be Allianan from what I remember.”

  “This is the Allianan settlement, Menard. Your observations are correct. The dead are both Cinnan and Allianan.” Catherine glimpsed Quor over Cyril’s wide shoulders.

  “And the fairrier cats killed them?” she asked. For the first time Catherine felt slightly unsure that bringing the cats to Lackanay was the right thing to do.

  She pushed past Cyril, steeling herself for the sight of the corpses. She heard Bessie scream as she stifled her own cry. There were seven or eight stone hovels with thatched roofs within the compound. Dangling from one of the roofs was a leg bone with a foot still attached. Bones and trails of blood littered the center of the compound. Scraps of shredded clothing were strewn about. Standing in the midst of the carnage, sniffing at a bloodied, faceless head, was Pokos. Catherine clapped a hand over her mouth in horror.

  Pokos looked up and padded over to her. His eyes were hard to read, a blend of gold and green. He nudged her gently and without thinking Catherine shrank back, bumping into Bessie.

  “They were Magnus’s men and Allianans,” said Pokos, as if that were the only explanation the gruesome scene required. His tail swished back and forth in a lively pattern. Catherine’s knees felt wobbly. Behind her Bessie fainted, soundlessly crumpling to the ground. Mekrita stepped into the compound to tend to her, careful not to look around.

  “It seems like everyone else ran for it,” said Menard, inspecting the tracks. He looked toward the back of the compound and grunted. “Yes. There is another door. That’s where they headed. There was fighting amongst them too. The Cinnans probably attacked the settlement and let in the fairrier cats by mistake.” He drew his sword and made for the far side of the compound. Catherine followed, casting g
lances at the rooftops. Cyril had his crossbow loaded.

  “They’re gone,” said Pokos. “The fairrier cats left long ago.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, Pokos, I’m not taking any chances,” muttered Cyril. Quor nodded at him and ran ahead to catch up with Menard.

  The camp was indeed deserted. Catherine poked her head into one of the huts and was hit with the stench of wood smoke and unwashed bodies. When her eyes adjusted to the darkness she could see wood platters and bowls set neatly on a shelf. It’s neat enough. Just smelly. There were wooden beds with leather strapping that supported rush mats and heaps of furs. There was a fire pit with a stone flue and still the walls and ceiling were blackened from smoke. A huge pile of wood took up much of the interior of the structure. They scertainly have collected a lot of firewood.

  In a corner was a beautiful carving of a small, lifelike dog resting on the floor; a smooth stone with an unusual band of color encircling it; and a long stick with notches cut into it. A primitive rushlight rested on the middle of a table, made of charred oak planks that had been fitted together with pegs. Benches made of the same oak planks were tucked underneath. They salvaged some wood from their ship. Two piles of pebbles on the table caught her attention. One pile was white and the other black. Some kind of game?

  Catherine left the hut. Pokos was waiting for her outside, just sitting and staring. She breathed in deeply and tucked her hair behind her ears, glad to be out of the dark, small hovel.

  “Well?” Pokos’s question was an accusation.

  “Well what?” Her eyes slid away from his.

  “You’re feeling sorry for these Allianans, aren’t you?”

  Catherine met his glare, her chin raised. “They have had a hard life, Pokos. You can certainly see that.”

  “Not hard enough,” grumbled Pokos.

  Frustrated, she gestured toward the direction of the bodies. “Is there no room in your heart for forgiveness? For compassion?”

  “Not for Allianans, Catherine. They are murderers. The scum of Lackanay.”