by Joseph Burgo
Devian fitted another arrow into his bow and cautiously moved closer. The fallen man lay still, long locks of his braided hair splayed across the dirt.
“Is he dead?” The sound of his own voice, deep and hoarse, came as a shock. For weeks he’d spoken to no one, not since the old man.
The stranger stood up and sheathed the knife at his thigh.
“No, only knocked senseless. He’s still breathing.” He was young, a few years older than Devian, with short flaxen hair. The image of a red hand was stained onto his tunic, palm open, its edges blurring into the fabric. With his foot, he kicked the downed rider who did not stir.
“That was an impressive shot,” he said, looking up.
Devian lowered his bow. “How did he come by your gold?”
“I only said that so you’d stop him.”
“You mean he didn’t take your gold?”
“I have no gold to take. I wanted to see what was inside his saddlebags and he wouldn’t stop when I asked him to, not even when I put it nicely.”
Devian blinked. He had no idea what to say. The man didn’t talk like the people of his village.
“I’m called Sandro,” he said, reaching out his hand. Devian stared at it for a few moments, unsure of what the gesture meant. “You’re supposed to do the same,” the stranger explained. When he smiled, only one side of his mouth turned up. “It’s what men do when they meet. We clasp hands in greeting.”
Devian reached for his hand. He believes me to be a man. When Sandro relaxed his grip, Devian also let go.
“Now it’s your turn to tell me your name.”
“Devian.” It was the first time he’d said it aloud.
“I am glad to meet you, friend Devian. And I thank you for your service to me.”
Friend.
No one had ever called him that.
At the sound of approaching footfalls, Sandro turned. Three men were loping along the road toward them. The forward lean of their bodies and the heaviness of their feet … they looked spent. They all carried leather packs upon their backs.
Sandro called out to them as they neared. “I’ve been too easy on you lately, boys. You’ve grown fat and lazy.”
He spoke as a leader and called them boys though all three had to be at least ten years older than he was. Brown-haired and stocky, they looked much alike. One had a beard beginning to gray, another deep pits in his face. The third had a swollen eye that didn’t open all the way. They wore tunics like Sandro’s with a red hand on their chests.
The man with the graying beard came to halt, resting hands on knees. “You’ve got … a horse,” he panted. The other two came up, breathing hard.
Sandro pressed his cheek against the horse’s muzzle. “What you say is true. I do indeed have a horse.” It had a beautiful gray coat, spotty in places, with a white mane and tail.
“Here are Ralli, Nim, and Bruno,” Sandro said. Boys, this is Devian, who took down our quarry and to whom we must give thanks.”
Devian wondered if he should put out his hand again. He waited for a sign but none of the others reached out. As they caught their breath, they slowly stood up and moved closer to Sandro. Seeing the four men together and the red hands on their tunics, each with five fingers, it struck him.
“Is there one more of you?” he asked.
“Very observant,” said Sandro. “We lost poor Arlo a few weeks back and now we’re short-handed.”
The half-smile on his face and the light in his eyes confused Devian. Sandro’s voice sounded serious while almost everything else about him seemed … just the opposite.
A shuffling noise came from behind – the fallen rider had regained his senses and was struggling to climb onto his horse’s back.
The man with the graying beard –Sandro had called him Ralli – lunged for one of his long braids and yanked him back onto the ground. The rider again scrambled to his feet and ran off into the woods. Ralli began to chase him.
“Let him go,” Sandro said. “We’ve got his saddlebags.”
He moved closer to the wounded horse, taking hold of its reins, and peered at the bloody place where Devian’s arrow had pierced it. “The arrowhead hasn’t fully entered,” he said. “I think it might …”
He suddenly grabbed the arrow’s shaft and pulled it out. The horse whinnied in pain and reared up. Sandro held tight to the reins, soothing the horse with a soft voice.
“Shhh, you have nothing to fear. The pain will pass. I’ll tend to that wound and heal you.” He blew into the horse’s nostrils and stroked its muzzle. The look of terror in its eyes slowly faded. “Now let’s have a look inside those saddlebags.”
He peeled back one the flap. Thrusting his hand inside, he pulled out some clothes, a knife with a stone blade, a half-eaten apple turning brown. With a snort, he tossed them onto the ground.
“He might as well have let me have a look. Nothing here worth all the trouble.”
Sandro moved to the other side, all of his body hidden by the horse but for his feet and flaxen hair.
“What a worthless bunch of … wait a moment, what’s this?” There was a rustling noise, a few seconds of silence, and then the sound of Sandro inhaling deeply. “Aha!” he cried.
His hand shot skyward above the horse’s back, holding a large leather pouch in his fist.
“It’s foria, boys. Tonight we celebrate!”
* * *
If the Band of the Red Hand were wildmen, they seemed very different from the others Devian had seen, all of them dirty and low like the pack that had attacked the old man. With their red-hand tunics, Sandro and his “boys” seemed more like the soldiers from Castle Inario who all dressed alike. These men seemed to Devian like a small group of soldiers with Sandro as their “captain.” That’s what the other three called him.
“Captain” meant Sandro could tell them what to do and they would do it. Nim, go gather wood for the fire. Find a flat stone for the venison, Ralli. Give the horses fresh water, Bruno. Each time he said what he wanted, they answered, “Yes, Captain.” They seemed to like doing what Sandro told them to do. Devian felt the same way. They’d only known each other a few hours and already Devian wanted to obey.
“You could help by finding me some millswart leaves,” Sandro told him. “Do you know the plant?”
Devian shook his head. Sandro described it for him and explained where to look – in the moist ground within the deepest shade. “Bring me only the new leaves, paler green than the others.”
Devian did not say the words Yes, Captain but he wanted to.
The sun was setting by the time he returned to camp. When he opened his palm to show the leaves he’d found, Sandro said, “Well done!” The words made Devian glad.
Nim, the man with the squinty eye, scooped small hot stones from the fire into a wooden bowl and then filled it with water. The stones hissed, the water bubbled, and steam rose from the bowl. Then Sandro crushed the millswart leaves between his palms and sprinkled them onto the water. A sharp but pleasant smell lifted from the bowl with something of green apple about it. Sandro knelt down and bathed the horse’s wound with a rag dipped in the steaming water.
“Why are you doing that?” Devian asked.
“To stop the wound from festering.”
– he’d never heard the word before. It must mean turning black or green. Sandro used many words Devian didn’t understand.
“Is there something in the leaves that does it?”
“If they’re fresh and you brew them properly.” He dipped his rag once again into the water and pressed it gently against the horse’s wound.
“Will it do the same thing for people when they have cuts?”
“It will.”
“How do you know that?”
“Arlo taught me. Arlo knew everything there was to know about the healing power of plants.”
“What happened to him?”
Sandro laughed. “You have a great many questions, friend Devian. Save them for campfire and I w
ill try to answer them.”
When Mother used to tire of his questions, she’d snarl and tell him to be still.
Sandro stood up and tossed the millswart water into the woods. “Come,” he said, “let us eat.”
* * *
At the campfire, Sandro took his knife from its sheath and cut up the deer meat that steamed upon the cooking stone. Devian sat cross-legged with the others, his mouth watering at the smell. Sandro lifted slices onto wooden plates and handed them out. Devian came last.
“You are youngest,” Sandro told him, “so the others all come before you. We must follow our traditions.”
“What are traditions?” Devian asked, taking the plate from his hand.
“Our usual ways of doing thing. The way we have done things in the past and the way we will continue to do them in the future.”
“Why?”
Sandro gave him that half-smile where only one part of his mouth turned up. “Eat, friend Devian. Enjoy your food.”
Devian lifted a hunk of the meat to his lips. The first bite brought tears to his eyes – he’d never tasted anything so good. He moaned in pleasure.
Sandro laughed. “Delicious, isn’t it?”
Delicious – another new word for him. When something tasted very good.
“How do you make it taste that way?”
“You’ll have to ask Bruno what he does. He’s our cook. Bruno, tell Devian how you prepare your venison.”
All the lines around Bruno’s eyes went deeper.
“Herbs,” he said, with a mouth full of meat.
Mother had sometimes used herbs but her meat never tasted this way.
“Which ones?” Devian asked.
Bruno shrugged. “Dried herbs.”
“You won’t get much more out of him,” Sandro said. “He’s a man of few words, as you can see.”
Ralli and Nim also seemed to be men “of few words.” They reminded him of men from his own village, who talked only when they needed to and cared about eating, sleeping, and rutting, nothing more. Even with firelight glinting on their eyes, these men looked dull.
After the evening meal, Sandro brought out the foria. He showed Devian how to crumble leaves into the pipe bowl, light a wooden spill and hold it to the foria until it began to smoke.
“You put your lips to the pipe stem and breathe in the smoke,” he said, “then hold it in. Like this.”
Devian’s shoulders grew tight as he watched Sandro suck on the pipe. Earlier, when he’d asked about foria and what it did to you, Sandro had said, “It will bring you joy.” A moment later, he added, “Though sometimes, not often, it does just the opposite.” Watching as Sandro breathed out a big cloud of smoke, watching as the other men took their turns at the pipe, Devian felt afraid. He didn’t want his fear to show.
When Nim handed him the pipe and the spill, he did as the others hand done. The smoke felt cool upon his throat. “Not too much,” Sandro said. “It’s your first time. Now hold your breath as long as you can. Good, that’s long enough. Give me the pipe.”
Devian blew out the smoke but didn’t feel any different. It was quiet around the fire, everyone gazing into its flames. The crackle of burning tree sap, sharp and clear, startled him. He’d never noticed how many different colors you could see in the flames of a fire. There was red, there yellow, there orange. In between and on either side, there were other colors he couldn’t name. So many beautiful colors within a single flame!
And smells!
His nose had been asleep and suddenly woke up. Wood-pitch in the fire smoke, pines needles on the breeze. He hadn’t realized before that clean had its own smell. He smelled stars in the night sky. There was also the smell of men – his body, their bodies. Sharp and earthy, an edge of salt underneath. His nose twitched but it wasn’t a bad smell. The man-body smell was … itself.
After a while, Ralli stood up and walked away from the fire, disappearing into the darkness. Nim and Bruno did the same but went in different directions. The sound of their footfalls slowly faded away until Devian no longer heard them. Sandro sat cross-legged beside him with his eyes closed.
“Where are they going?” Devian asked.
“To tend to their worms.” Sandro his eyes them shut. “It affects most men that way. If you need to do the same, don’t get lost. Find a spot where you can still see the fire’s glow.”
It took Devian a moment to understand what Sandro had told him. Then he laughed. Having a worm suddenly seemed very funny. It seemed funny that all men needed to – how had Sandro put it? – tend to their worms.
“Not you?” he asked.
Now Sandro opened his eyes. “Sometimes. Sometimes it affects me that way but usually, it makes me want to talk.” He smiled. “Once I get started, I can easily talk ‘your ear off,’ as we say in my country. Pay me no heed. Most of what I say isn’t worth listening to.”
Then he closed his eyes again.
As much as his own worm had filled his thoughts since the shift, Devian barely noticed it now. Other parts of his body seemed more important. Hands with five fingers, each one alive in itself and almost … almost like a little person. Toes, too. He had no words for the way his scalp felt. A sudden rush of gratitude brought tears to his eyes. He felt so glad to be alive, to feel all the ways he now felt. It seemed almost more than he could bear. The rush of smells and sounds and colors coming in frightened him a little.
I am here, at the center of things. The stars above, the hard dirt beneath my hands, the chill air all around me. Somewhere far away is my village. There is Mother in our hut, there the river where Gianna died. Castle Inario. Behind me is the wide plain and the mountains rising on the other side and somewhere along the road is Nido where the Orsallins live. All of Messano, all around me.
Sandro must have been talking for a while before Devian began to listen. Minute by minute, the sound of Sandro’s voice grew deeper and fuller and so beautiful that Devian had no choice but to listen. Sandro was talking to someone else, someone who wasn’t actually there. Devian closed his eyes as the beautiful sound of Sandro’s voice poured into his ears like golden water.
“I should have sent you away earlier. The fault is all mine and I say it to you now, I’m sorry. I know it’s too late. You’re dead and cannot hear me. I should have sent you away when I first understood what you wanted. But I chose not to know. I saw but I didn’t want to accept how deep were your feelings. Sometimes it easier to pretend something isn’t true when you don’t like it. All people are the same.
“I could see you were slowly wasting away like Gondin and Mitra and the others before, but I lied to myself. The years were melting from my body – I should have known it was happening all over again. I did know. Oh Arlo, I do miss you and our conversations. Why is it always the most vital ones who die? Why not Bruno or Nim? So barely alive they wouldn’t even notice they were dying.
“Arlo, Arlo, Arlo – I will weep for you one day but I can’t yet find my tears. The joy of my own youth still overpowers me. You have to acknowledge that to be young and alive and full of power is a glorious thing. You once felt that way, Arlo. And would any other man have turned away such love? Sometimes I think I ask too much myself. It’s not my fault that I am made as I am. Did I deceive you or force you into loving me? Did I ever pretend to feel more than I did? No, it is not my fault.”
Sandro made a short laughing sound through his nose.
“I tell you I’m sorry in one breath and in the next, I prove to you that I am not sorry. Sometimes I grow tired of myself, Arlo. I have to admit there are moments when this long long life seems beyond bearing.”
As he listened, Devian felt his mind growing larger. Was it the sound of Sandro’s voice filling him up? No, the foria. His mind felt wider and deeper, opening into a place he had known was there but couldn’t see or feel, as if a thick high wall closed it off. As Sandro went on talking, the wall came down and he was Devianna. Devian, too. He was both and neither, bigger than either one. He didn’t h
ave to think hard to remember what it had felt like to be a woman because he felt that way now. He felt like a man. He could move himself to either side of his mind and feel the way he chose.
He didn’t at all understand what Sandro was saying but the golden sound of his captain’s voice went on filling him up. He could easily come to feel for this man what he felt for Mother. Something like that feeling but also different. He felt a stirring in his worm that was also his cleft. It was about rutting but more. He could give himself to this man and obey him. He might stay forever with the Band of the Red Hand and do whatever Sandro told him to do.
Devian suddenly felt tired. A wave of weakness had taken hold of his body. Maybe this was the foria, too. Maybe after a while, foria exhausted you with the force of everything you sensed and felt.
And then he slept.
END OF PART ONE
ALSO BY JOSEPH BURGO
FICTION
Cinderella Snow White at
the Dwarf Colony Rapunzelmother
NON-FICTION
Why Do I Do That The Narcissist You Know The Hero As Narcissist