Ephemeral and Fleeting

by Patricia Reding

  He looked at each of them in turn. “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “May I?” she nodded toward the fourth and last chair at the table.

  “Yeeessss,” he drawled.

  “You’ve always told us to call you by your name.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ve always treated us with kindness.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve treated you as best I could under the circumstances.”

  “Well then, Broden,” she emphasized his name, “we want to help.”

  “Oh?”

  She leaned in. “Look, if not for you, Ehyeh only knows what would have become of us by now.”

  “Ehyeh!” Striver cried.

  “You don’t think we could have spent so much time around Broden and not discovered that much at least, do you?” Farida asked. “Of course, he’s a follower. And because of his example, we’ve all become followers, as well.”

  Broden rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t allow you all to put yourselves at risk,” he said.

  Yasmin rested her hand on his arm. “We already are—at risk.” She paused. “Look, the troubles here in Chiran may or may not be things that can be resolved. I don’t know. But I do know that they aren’t your responsibility—nor should it be up to the Oosians to help the common people of Chiran. Yet if we’re ever to know true freedom, it won’t come from our countrymen, it will come from yours. That’s why we need to help you.”

  He stared at her.

  “The concept of freedom was lost from this place too long ago,” she said. “No one remembers what it is, or what it’s like. They can’t appreciate that they don’t really live, because they never really have lived. But we,” she pointed at herself, then gestured toward the other women, “have seen you. We’ve watched you. We’ve come to appreciate what freedom might be—and that’s more than we’ve ever experienced before.”

  “Still—” He tried to interrupt.

  “No . . . Broden,” she said, pausing at the sound of his name, “these people Zarek has imprisoned are important to you—and to Carlie. That makes them important to us. And the truth is that even if you don’t sanction us to follow through with our plan, we’re going to. We choose to do this. We choose to exercise the freedom to do it. So unless you intend to act against what we know you believe in, nothing you say will change our minds.”

  A long quiet minute passed. Finally, “You have some sort of proposal?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Go on then.”

  “When Zarek brought you to the prison where he’s holding your friends, he put new guards in charge of the women’s prison. We assist them in preparing wagons for transport just like we did when you worked there. When the right time comes, we’ll make a commotion. Perhaps shout that someone has escaped.”

  He stared at her.

  “If they think there’s trouble, they’ll call for reinforcements. Meanwhile, you could have a few minutes alone with your friends.”

  Broden stood and paced. “If you end up in trouble, I won’t be able to help you.”

  Yasmin held his gaze. “It’ll work. I’m sure of it.”

  He sighed, nodding. “Very well then, I’ve got some ideas of my own. But we mustn’t act rashly here. We need to take the time necessary to plan this all out well in advance. We won’t get a second chance. Now, listen up.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Lucy stood with a pack over her shoulder, Petrus at her side. “I’m going to return Basha to Marshall’s camp at the border, and then I’ll come back here,” she said to him. “I hope we can leave shortly after I return.” With that, she took Basha’s hand, and disappeared.

  Seconds later, they arrived in the midst of Marshall’s camp.

  “Guards! Guards!” someone shouted out. Then came more cries from all sides. Confusion reigned as people ran toward the original plea for help.

  Basha grabbed the arm of one of the nearby Oathtakers. “What’s going on?” she asked as she headed with him toward the sounds, Lucy at their heels.

  “I don’t know!”

  They ran with the others. Soon, they reached the source of the commotion.

  A young man stood near several barrels of water that the Oathtakers had filled at a nearby spring. In his hand, he held a bag.

  “Put it down!” Trumble growled.

  “It’s nothing,” the teen said.

  “I said, ‘put it down.’”

  Basha pushed through to the front of the crowd. “What is it, Trumble?” she asked when she met him at his side. “Was that you who called for a guard?”

  “Yes. I think that’s poison in the bag he’s holding.” He gestured toward the youth.

  “Who is he? Why would you think that?”

  “He’s one of the young men who recently come across the border from Chiran.” He bit his lip. “And it’s about something Felicity said.” He took another step forward. “Put it down,” he ordered once again.

  “I’ll take it from here,” one of the guards said as he slapped Trumble on the back, then walked toward the youth.

  “What did Felicity say?” Basha asked.

  He turned her way. “You know how simple she is, how her words sometimes relay the impression of something happening, even though those words may not be wholly accurate?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, just minutes ago, she awakened from a nap, crying out, repeatedly, ‘Don’t drink, don’t fuddle! Don’t drink, don’t fuddle!’”

  Basha’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither did I, at the time. But then I came out here to fill a pitcher with water. That’s when I saw that one,” he pointed at the young man, “wandering around the barrels here. Clearly, he was watching to be certain no one saw him.”

  “And?”

  “And I thought about what Felicity had said. You see, if she saw someone delirious from poison, it might well appear to her that he’d been drinking spirits—that he was inebriated, ‘fuddled.’”

  Just then, Marshall approached Basha’s side. “What’s happening?” he asked.

  Basha and Trumble relayed all they knew as they watched guards surround the youth who then dropped the item he held. He feinted going around one barrel, then another, drawing his pursuers every which way. Then, suddenly, he sprang out.

  Whuuufff! He fell to the ground when one of them tackled him below his knees.

  The youth twisted around and kicked, trying to free himself. A second later, he was armed.

  “Watch out!” Basha cried. “He has a knife!”

  The guard let go his hold, then pulled back, even as four more Oathtakers drew nearer.

  “Back!” the teen cried, once again on his feet.

  “Put your weapon down,” one of the men ordered. “We don’t want to hurt you.”

  He and his cohorts all took another step closer.

  “Back!” the youth cried again. “I didn’t do anything!”

  “Keep him there,” Marshall ordered.

  Lucy headed to the water barrels. Spotting the bag the youth had dropped, she stooped down and grabbed it. As she looked back, the youth darted, once again seeking to free himself, even as the guards stepped closer to him.

  “If he runs, stop him!” she cried. “But don’t use your Oathtaker’s blade. We may need to question him.” She opened the bag and, holding it several inches away, sniffed. Then, “Bind him!” she ordered.

  When the youth once again tried to run, one of the Oathtakers flicked a knife at him. It landed in the meaty part of his thigh. As he looked down at it, a crimson patch of blood shown out. Then, as he grabbed the blade to pull it free, several guards descended on him, simultaneously. One took one of his arms, while another held the other.

  “Hold it,” the first of them ordered him.

  Marshall, Basha, and Trumble, made their way to Lucy’s side.

  “What’s in the bag?” Basha asked.

  “Ground castor oil beans.”

&nbs
p; “Are they poisonous?”

  “Very.” Lucy turned to Trumble. “Good catch,” she said. Then she addressed the men who held the teen captive. “Lock him up,” she ordered. Turning back, she asked, “How old do you suppose he is?”

  “Fifteen, sixteen, maybe,” Trumble said.

  “We need to discuss the situation of allowing people over the border,” she said. “Now!”

  “But they’re just children!” Basha exclaimed. She, Trumble, Marshall, and Lucy, along with the troop leaders stationed with them at the border, sat gathered around a table in the tent reserved as a cafeteria.

  Lucy let her breath out slowly. “I don’t care.”

  Basha glared at her. “You do too care, Lucy. I know you do.” She crossed her arms. “Why are you taking this position? Why are you pretending to be so heartless?”

  Lucy turned to the troop leaders. “Is this the first incident you’ve had of this kind?” she asked.

  “Ahhh, no,” one of them responded.

  “That’s why,” Lucy said.

  Basha turned to them. “What other incidents are you referring to?”

  Trumble leaned in. “While you were away with Lucy, several of our men were out on patrol. Do you remember that young woman you and I rescued when we first came here?”

  “Nadine? Sure. What of her?”

  “Nothing about her—exactly. As you know, we directed her to a place of safety. But our patrols came upon several additional groups of young men seeking to do the same as had her captors.”

  “Kidnapping women.”

  “Oosian women. Yes.” Trumble sighed. “The abductors are young Chiranian men who made their way into Oosa. Now they capture our young women with the intention of selling them as slaves in Chiran.” He shook his head. “This must stop.”

  “He’s right,” Lucy said.

  “So what exactly is it that you recommend, huh, Trumble?” Basha asked. “Lucy is suggesting that we turn all the children away. Is that what you want to see done? They’ll die there, in Chiran, with no one to watch out for them.”

  “Basha,” Lucy interrupted, “Zarek knows enough about our ways to understand that we value life, and that we seek to protect the youngest and the weakest.”

  “Yes, but now you’re suggesting that we’re not to do that—that we’re not to follow the very essence of our calling.” She sighed heavily as she ran her fingers through her hair. “So what if Zarek knows our ways?”

  “So what? So he’s using that information against us.”

  “May I speak?” one of the troop leaders asked.

  “Certainly, Coye,” Basha said. “What is it?”

  “We had another incident while you were away. Unfortunately, the young man got away, so we were unable to question him afterward, but all the evidence suggested that he was—” He stopped short.

  “That he was what?”

  “That he’d been harming the children. The really little ones.”

  Biting her lip, Basha looked away. “What evidence?”

  Lucy put her hand on her friend’s. “Aliza told us she believed similar things were going on.”

  “What evidence?” Basha persisted.

  “Someone came in with a group of children one day. Well, they weren’t all children, exactly.”

  “Spit it out, Coye.”

  “There was a group of five boys, likely ranging in age from ten or so, up. We thought the eldest might be about fifteen. All the others seemed to look to him for direction. In any case, now we’re not so sure how old he was.

  “When they made it to the tents where we keep the children before we send them on to other safe places, the boys all stepped inside. Several of the younger ones who were already there burst into hysterics.

  “I was standing to the young man’s left when he lunged for one of them. I sprang out behind him, warning him to step back, but he didn’t. The next thing I knew, he was armed.”

  He glanced about, hesitating. “I’m sorry, but at the time I carried only my Oathtaker’s blade. I didn’t want to use it on him. What if I had the facts wrong? I didn’t think I should act as judge, jury, and executioner. So I hesitated and . . . Well, that’s when he got away. I’m not sure it was the right decision since he’d been headed for one of the youngest ones there.”

  “You were right,” Lucy said, “not to use your blade on him. I find no fault in your reasoning.”

  “Still, the child he was after was . . . terrified.”

  Basha, biting her lip, looked down and sighed.

  “Listen,” Lucy said, “I think Zarek is training young men to cause us harm. I also believe that he’s trying to get his youngest looking warriors across the border so that they can cause problems for us right here in Oosa.”

  “We can’t send all of the children back,” Basha insisted.

  Lucy’s shoulders slumped. Then she asked, “Have you all noticed anything untoward coming from the young women who’ve managed to make their way here?”

  “Not many have made it here,” Trumble said.

  “But of those who have?”

  The leaders exchanged glances.

  Trumble shrugged. “No,” he said.

  “Then here’s our compromise,” Lucy said. “You may let all the young women of any age in—unless or until we find we should act otherwise. But you must turn away any male child you have good reason to believe is over twelve years of age. Then, Marshall, I want you to set up some sort of . . . I don’t know. Someone needs to school these young ones in our ways. I’m not sure we can change the minds of the oldest of them, but we can certainly try.”

  Basha stared at her. “But you still intend to leave all the others victim to Zarek?” she asked. “That’s— It’s barbaric!”

  “Basha,” Lucy said, “to whom do you owe your first duty?”

  “Oh, great Ehyeh, Lucy,” she muttered, shaking her head.

  “Tell me.”

  “To the Good One and to my charge, Therese, of course.” Basha’s voice was clipped.

  “When we allow those young men inside our borders, we increase the dangers to Therese—and to every other member of the Select—and to every other Oosian. This is hard, I know, but it is necessary. War is an ugly thing.”

  “So we sacrifice them for our safety?”

  “It’s like Dixon always says, we cannot take on blame for the wrongdoing of others. If the Chiranian system is so flawed as to cause them harm, we can do what we can to save some, but not at the risk of sacrificing our own safety to Zarek.” With that, she got up, and walked away.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Gnarly brambles covered the way before her. If not careful, she would trip on their roots. Here and there, in their midst, pits of rotting debris stood out. From time to time, one spontaneously burst into flame, filling the air with a thick black smoke that made her eyes itch. She wiped them, then turned back to business.

  Once again setting down the basket in which one of the little ones rested, she started hacking through another section. As she slashed with her blade, the plants’ jagged thorns cut through her garb and into her skin, leaving criss-crossed bloody hatches behind.

  She paused to pull a thorn out from her arm. Almost the size of her fingernail, its curved end, reminiscent of a fishing hook with barbs at its end, had caught deeply in her flesh. Sweat glistened on her brow as she struggled with it. Its poison quickly made her skin turn red. It burned. She knew she had to hurry before more of it made its way into her system. The last time that had happened, she’d been left unconscious for a time. Fearing for the infants’ safety should that occur again, she grabbed the barb’s end in her teeth and then pulled.

  She cried out, tears running down her cheeks, when it came loose.

  Blood trickled down her arm, then dripped to the ground, feeding the angry bush. New growth instantly sprouted where the drops landed.

  She bound a cloth around her wound. She couldn’t allow her suffering, her life force, to nourish the enemy.

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nbsp; The plant’s poison, now in her mouth, choked her. She coughed and spit before opening her canteen, filling her mouth with water, and then spitting it out. After several more such washes, the irritation on her tongue lessened.

  She recapped the vessel, then continued hacking away. Just then, through an opening in the wall of thorns, she thought she saw a flicker of green. Though tiny, it encouraged her to move faster.

  She chopped more, until sweat ran down her frontside where the other child was bound, then stopped momentarily to review her progress. The tunnel that she’d made was not quite large enough to squeeze through without taking the risk that more poisonous barbs would catch her, so she slashed away some more.

  Once satisfied, she peeked into the basket. The babe did not look good. Fearing for the lives of both the little ones, she grabbed the basket, swept her cape over it, and hunched down. She had to clear the top sufficiently, as she’d be unable to help herself if a barb made its way into her backside.

  Her first foot landed just on the other side of the opening. The ground felt different—not hard and dry. Rather, it was almost spongy.

  Once her other foot passed through, she stood and looked about. She had, indeed, landed in a clearing devoid of the brambles.

  Then she beheld the strangest sight. One branch, reaching forward from out of the area of desolation, a branch from what appeared on looking back to be from the highest bush therein, had canopied out from its surroundings and into the clearing. At its end grew a small green bud that rested on the ground.

  She approached, then examined it carefully, finding it strange.

  She opened her canteen and trickled a few drops of water on it. Within seconds, the tiny seedling grew. She cocked her head, thinking, then watered it some more. Another branch grew, and then another. Almost immediately, out from the soil at her feet, sprang yet another green seedling, this one no doubt connected to the roots of the first. Then came more.

  Soon a clover colored patch filled the space and started pushing up against the edges of the wasteland. In turn, the gnarly bushes started to shrink away. It was as though the bramble from within, a despot among despots, had created the seed of its own undoing.