*
The Returned Boy looked down at his mother, who only yesterday seemed a great deal taller. So much fragility came with the stress of grieving. Yet, he could not hold his mother's heart's gladness while he knew he had left Azure without hers. Hugging his mother tightly, Cethel happened to look at the foot of the bed and saw the burnt remains of the herb bunch.
“What's that? What did you burn?”
Cethel did not wait for her answer. Leaning down, his hands picked up the charred limbs. The string that bound the sticks together was still there, though little else remained. The string? What is it?
As he touched it, it unraveled slightly, no thicker than a strand of horse hair. Looking closely, almost hurting his eyes to focus so near, he could just make out the intertwining braid. He lifted it free of the burned herbs.Three fine and delicate strands of blue slowly unwound into his hand. It was Azure's hair.
Already the dream's demands were fading from his waking mind. Fire’s gift. How her friends would know him because he carried her hair, Cethel had no idea. But apparently the ghost of his dreams did. He had to take something into the forest that made him more than just a weakened youth against vastly superior men.
Can I ask father? Could he tell Centen the whole story? As skilled as he was in all the ways of the land, Cethel knew that his father's sense of justice and rightness would demand he report Tatanya's death to the village council. Cethel's freedom, Laylada's dying hope, and Azure's rescue would all end abruptly.
“I need this.”
Ranada wove the hair into a bracelet and tied it around his wrist. He packed quickly, taking just a few necessities. He ate as he went, filling his stomach and his pack. He took his mother's father's hunting knife from its rack above the firesplace. Heavy in his hand, plain and somewhat sharp, it paled in comparison to the beauty and craftsmanship of the silver and black weapon of treachery he had so recently held. At least this one is an honest blade. “Honor to our house,” the boy intoned.
His mother nodded as he buckled it onto his belt. “It was yours after your next Hunt anyway,” she added. “My Da would have been proud of you.”
“Mother? I have to speak to the priest for a brief moment before I start. Do you mind?”
*
Cethel kissed her forehead, and suddenly, Ranada had only the memory of his youthful body held in her arms. He was gone.
Ranada sat down by the firesplace and stirred the sunrise coals, feeding them tinder without any thought. Sifting the heat, digging into the pile for the last bit of fire, the remains of warmth and heat from yestereve flared to life, consuming the brittle tinder and kindling. To the new flames she spoke her prayer, muttered from pleading lips. “Please, Bira! Don't take my son in your wrath. Don't take him, as you rise. Burn some other mother's child, leave him to me. I can't bear to lose him twice! Please, Bira, please. I beg you.”
Her beseeching words were met with no reply, only the silence of the sun's falling broken by the chirping of a few scattered songbirds.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Journeys Twain
Walking in companionable silence as was their wont, the two weary travelers held hands and stopped at the slightest unknown noise. Anyone who looked their direction saw only the open fields and an empty road. But sounds could be heard, therefore sounds were guarded. Since leaving Mira-Seng, Ilion had moved with such purpose and decisiveness, Alizarin had no trouble following him as he walked leaning on the staff, clutching his opposite hand. Avoiding all of the travelers roads and shelters in respect for the hunting abilities of the Green Lady, the Thugs, and the uncertain pursuit of the blackest nightmare monsters, Alizarin and Ilion still managed to gain ground towards their determined goal
It wasn't hard, walking from near sun's rising to the closing of the day. They rarely stopped for food. Mostly they took available foodstuffs from farm houses or fields and left a few coins in sight. A few times, Alizarin uncloaked to ask assistance of another woman at a country house, while Ilion stayed cloaked to protect her. There had been no incidences of violence since leaving the Corded Family Farm, and they both fervently wanted to keep it that way.
As the two of them lay, with the staff between their arms, on one of his red blankets trimmed in gold, the baker finally asked him,“What did she say?”
“Hmmm?” Ilion said, opening one eye. “Who?”
“Who? The woman at the temple, of course!”
“What woman?”
“What do you mean, what woman? The one dressed in all the different shades of blue that spoke to you directly.”
Confusion sat on his face like a heavy wool blanket. “I didn't see a woman.” said Ilion. “I simply addressed the temple itself. I offered the traditional exchanges and ritual words. I put forth the dead priests' objects and asked for guidance. Wait! Are you saying that you did see someone?”
Alizarin's face was contorted in confusion.“You are joking with me. You are! I saw you talk to her.”
Ilion shook his head in wonder mixed with confusion. Taking a deep breath he continued,“There was no her. I gave my report to the temple grounds and then waited for direction to be given back to me. I saw only that none of the articles were taken or moved except the sealed scroll. That did vanish for a moment, but then it was back in my front pocket after we left.”
She could only look at him in confusion.
“But the woman? The woman I saw, she spoke directly to you, in the most beautiful and almost falling-water sounding words.”
His eyebrow raised. “Did you hear me speaking then?”
“Well, yes, quite plainly.”
“And you saw another person talking back to me and answering my questions?”
“Yes.”
His brow furrowed and he lay in silence for a while, next to her.
“Well, I should say at the very start, that I did not see any other person there, except you. I simply offered the items I had in my possession and said the prayers I had been taught. In return, I had the distinct feeling we needed to go to the temple of Bira and seek the Fire Maid there. Of course, I haven't the foggiest idea where that is.
“The only temple of Bira ever mentioned to me was destroyed so long ago that there are no records that speak of its location. Still, if there are three Goddesses, three Sisters, she must have had a temple as well. I have been to Mira-Sang and Kira-Tang. I was raised at the temple of Kira, for the most part. There I trained in gathering and learned to read and write the common languages. Mira’s was the only other temple location that I have ever been privy to.”
They both looked at each other, thinking.
“What did she look like?” he asked out of curiosity.
“She was about my height, her head was wrapped in a scarf the color of the sky just after the sun sets. She wore a blue robe, a deeper midnight hue that fell off of her shoulders and pooled around her feet, but truly it was mostly her eyes I saw, deep and penetrating. She was full of knowledge. Not a great deal of emotion. She did not seem angry or happy in talking to you.”
Ilion was completely absorbed in what she told him. “Fascinating. Just fascinating! Why didn't I see her? I wonder if she was the one who took care of me. Or, what if there are others? Hidden at the temples? That would answer a lot of questions I have thought on since I left the temple for life in Tamborinton.” Nodding his head to private thoughts that seemed clearer with that bit of revelation. “But I was right there. That is so odd. Maybe it's because you're a woman?”
Alizarin could only shrug, mystified.
They lay there, each absorbed in thought, staring at the distant stars. Finally, she broke the silence. “Did she say anything to you then? Even if you didn't see her, what did you hear? I mean, we are traveling with a purpose. Where do you take us?”
He nodded as she talked. When she finished, he thought for a moment. “We go to Bira-Kang.”
“What?”
“Well, I don't know where her temple is. But, legend has always said t
hat she wanders the mountain range in her anger and longing, looking for the lost treasure that was stolen from her, always searching. I figure some clue to her temple will be there. The crimson priests must have left a hidden pattern to follow, just like at Mira's temple. We have to find it and discover the secret.”
Alizarin could see the reasoning. Surely, someone in the mountains would know where to look. How large are the mountains, anyway? As she settled into sleep, the baker spoke for both of them,“We will find it together, Ilion. I am certain of it. Else why did I see her? The lady of blue knows where we are going. We are on the right path.”
“Let's pray we can stay on it,” said Ilion.
*
Crouching in the neatly planted row of bushes, the exhausted boy waited with some amount of patience. His muscles were not as strong as they had been, between starvation and illness. Mostly it was Cethel's will and determination that held him still in the fading light.
One after another the doors opened. Planks creaked and the sound of fires catching on dried leaf echoed up and down the street.
Within his chest, his heart pounded hard and fast. In his neck, he could feel every push of his life's blood. When he closed his eyes, a slight dizziness settled over him. So, he did not close his eyes often. There was too much to be done and he was the only one to do it.
Finally, he heard the grating of wood on wood as the door in front of him creaked open and one solitary man emerged, blocking the fire’s light from within. Reaching in his side pocket, the shadow of a man removed his pipe and sat down emphatically, a grunt escaping his lips as the air was pushed out of a prodigious belly. The chair protested as the one man Cethel needed to talk to shifted his ungainly weight to get comfortable, settling in for his sun-fading ritual.
Cethel could see all along the street in each direction as other men lit their pipes and collectively breathed a sigh of relief at having survived the stress and duties of another day. Even in moments of crisis, habits led to comfort. The village men clung to that, perhaps even more so in the face of the surrounding unknown danger. There was little to do but wait to fight an enemy with no face.
Most men hoped only to see the eyes of their attackers before they struck. Several already had confessed as much to the priest. Many had cried into their sleeping wives' hair, holding them close, wishing fervently that they could save their families, but seeing no option in which they could escape the coming destruction.
Whatever held the forest had no regard for their small lives; the massacre of the hunters had made that perfectly clear. As far as the eye could see, village men lit their pipes, a small line of fires against the growing darkness of the skies and the forest's heart.
He waited until he had seen a good number of smoke puffs escape from the priest's plump mouth, dissipating into the air one after another. He was not sure when to break the silence. He waited and watched. Finally, the moment came.
Standing upright, his body was terribly relieved to stretch out. With the temerity of an old man, Cethel edged closer to the porch, still staying off the main path to the elaborate doorway. “Sir?”
“Who goes there? Huh? Who is it?” The priest's hand went to his heart, startled.
“Sir? Uh, sir, it is Cethel. Cethel d'Ranada Tranan, sir.” Cethel's hands were locked in a clench behind his back.
“What? Cethel? The Returned Boy, is it? You're better now, then?” Leaning forward a bit with his head and shoulders, the scowling man peered into the falling shadows, searching out the nuisance that invaded his quiet time. His glaring eyes could just make out Cethel's identity.
Nodding to himself in approval and acknowledgment of his discernment, the priest relaxed back into his evening smoking chair and continued, “I knew you were fine. I told them you would be fine. Of course.” Puff, puff. “Just a bit of mother's care, and you bounced right back. The luck of youth, I say. No reason to fret about you. No reason at all.” He took a long draw on the pipe, and smoke fumed out of his wide nostrils.
Looking at Cethel's slender frame still hovering in the semi-darkened space, he remarked, “You don't look too strong though. Should still be in bed, I'd say. Why are you out and about this ev'nfall, boy? Does your mother know you are here, then?”
Gathering all of his courage and his worry for his friend, the boy blurted out,“I saw them, sir. I saw the Dirtmen in the forest. I saw them take the two girls and I followed them to their campsite.” Looking up at the priest's face, he said earnestly, “I know where they are! I know where the enemy sleeps.” Having delivered the tremendous, portentous news, Cethel waited. Surely, the priest will know what to do?
Puff, puff, puff. Puff. The priest let out a deep sigh, exhaling the collected smoke. It billowed up and around the porch, obscuring the older man's face and hair.
“Sir?” Cethel was confused. He waited for instant direction and decisiveness from the leader of the congregation, certain that the village would believe him. They could fight a known enemy instead of the lurking darkness. He listened for the sure response.
It didn't come.
Puff, puff, and more puffs came from the little pipe's mouth. Each time the fire glowed, each time, Cethel was certain the priest would speak.
Puff.
“Sir? Did you hear me, sir? The men who have invaded our forest? Our greatest enemy? I know where they are!”
The large man sat there, calmly smoking his pipe, eyes closed in relaxation.
“Sir?”
“Yes, yes, boy, I heard you.” The large man exhaled with a sigh. Watching the curling smoke float away, the priest was the picture of relaxation. “I heard you. I will deal with this when the sun rises. Now is not the time to rile up the village. Let them rest. Let them rest! Then with a good sleep to strengthen us, we will speak of the gathered enemy.”
Turning his gaze away from the submissive boy's upraised face, the priest contentedly inhaled and exhaled, oblivious to anything or anyone else.
Clearly dismissed, completely flabbergasted as to why the village priest did not want to hear more details, Cethel stood stunned. Looking up at the man's pursed lips and flaring nostrils, his bright ray of hope dimmed a bit. He stood there for a few moments more, to be certain that their conversation had truly finished. Puzzlement and then confusion marked his expression.
Bowing his head in acceptance of the will of the Divine Man's proclamation, Cethel, weak and weary, walked around the corner lot and straight to the empty backhouse that Laylada had so often filled with the delicious smell of fresh cookies and berry pies.
He felt around in the dark, mostly by touch alone. His hunting-trained mind, ever observant, knew what he hoped to find. He felt a softness in the rear cabinet, and pulled down on the folded cloth. The exhausted boy wrapped Laylada's work apron into a makeshift pillow. Breathing in her scent that faded even as he held the fabric to his skin, stretching out on the worn wooden floor boards, Cethel slept.
*
In his dreams, nothing happened. No one came. No nightmare monster tore after him, seeking his destruction. Nothing amazing happened.
So worn out was the young boy's body from the lack of food, guilt, and fever that Cethel slept the deep, unbroken sleep of the victorious warrior, immune to all sounds and any intruding sensations. With his headrest the soft fabric of his friend's clothing, nothing could wake him, nothing except enough rest.
The first thing he was aware of was the sound of Laylada's cousins chattering nearby. What are their names? Their voices were so high in pitch that he could have sworn he was awoken by the chirping of little birds who had not yet learned their mother's song. The rhythm and cadence of their chatter gently lifted him up from the embrace of bone-tired slumber. Something of their child voices still managed to remind him of Laylada's. He awoke slowly, listening intently to her fading voice. It was as if she called to him across the forest's expanse, Come Cethel. Come. Save me. Save us. The village needs you! Cethel!
The peacefulness that sleep had granted was n
ot displaced by the simple fact that this day was the day to save her, if he could. Shaking his head slightly, he sat up. He was filled with resolve. Did the priest believe me? Will he be able to help? What would the Divine Man do? Cethel knew the village would rally, would fight. In the end, we will be victorious, of course! The good always win their way free of trouble and despair, all the stories at school taught him that.
Pushing his rumpled hair away from his face, the sleep-wrinkled youth felt with his fingers the imprint that the creases of fabric from the apron had left on his cheek. A deep sense of longing settled intensely around his heart, longing for Laylada. I miss her so.
Closing his eyes for just a moment, Cethel said the prayer of sunrise in his mind.
Greet me now on this new day,
Show me clearly the blessed way.
Let me serve the Truest will
Thy unknown purpose to fulfill.
His ears caught the slightest bit of conversation from the girls as they left the backyard garden. “Mother says we must go,” whispered one voice. “The priest is speaking. He calls us all to gather at the school.”
Whining her reply, the second voice said, “But I want to play with the playhouse we made. It's so lovely, the perfect home for Dolly and Boo.”
“Well, we can play later. Mother says we must come now!”
“I don't want to. They will be lonely. Dolly will cry without us.”
“Look, Verta.” Her sister exhaled a big sigh, and cajoled, “I promise I will play house with you when we return. It will just be a few moments, come on. Come on!”
“Promise?” The smaller girl's voice was already moving away.
“Of course, of course! It's what sisters do, silly. Come on, we are late.”
The voices faded completely. Cethel started. He had to get to the meetinghouse right away. What he had to say was important! The priest would need to hear the rest of the detailed description of their enemies. Then, the whole village could make a plan to save their captured friends and children!
Into the Raging Mountains Page 37