“I see. And you? Weren’t you happy to see him? Didn’t you go to him?”
“I was happy, but I also wasn’t happy. He was in such a state that who knows what he would’ve done, you know?”
“Here’s your school, Milo. Jump off. I hope you’re not too late.”
“You think he’ll ever stop?” Milo paused on the step. “My mother won’t allow him to come near us when he’s drunk, but I miss him.”
“Maybe he’ll quit drinking. In the meantime, it’s difficult for him. The wine demon has him in his grip, as they say.”
“If you see him, tell him.”
“I will. See you, Milo.”
“See you, Martam. See you, Tanti. Tell Martam how you blocked the furroids and how you stole cheese from the White guards.”
“I didn’t…” but Milo had already disappeared into the tangled vegetation.
Martam sighed and urged the mares to continue. “Milo. What a child.” He turned to Tanti. “What’s this I hear? You blocked the furroids?”
“Not me. There was a boulder there that blocked them.”
Martam Og looked at him pointedly. “I guess there’s more to you than meets the eye.”
The wagon continued rolling after the speckled mares. Tanti and Martam Og were silent, each of them deep in his own thoughts.
Chapter 22
Roads and Dreams
The road wound between the mountains, valleys, and ravines, and crossed a lazily meandering river and cultivated fields. Tanti enjoyed the rapidly changing landscape from his vantage point on the wagon seat, while Martam Og chattered.
In the beginning, they made good progress, even though they stopped frequently so Martam Og could unload goods from his wagon and load new produce, arguing about the price of delivery, and always getting the price he wanted, after lengthy debates. Since the Blues weren’t prepared to accept the price he stated without trying to get at least a fifty percent discount, he set a much higher price and “compromised” at half the price. Then both sides would lament about daylight robbery, while they were actually happy with the result. Martam Og was willing to deliver anything anywhere for a price, even if he had to leave the main road and prolong their route.
The delays played havoc with Tanti’s patience. Martam Og was received everywhere with cries of joy. People chatted with him and exchanged information, jokes, and gestures, and by the time they brought the merchandise to or took it from the wagon, Tanti was frustrated and restless. Perhaps that half-blind nag of Ganoli’s from Bird Village would’ve brought him to his destination faster, but perhaps not. Had he gotten lost and asked for the help of the locals, rumor would’ve spread that a Hue-man, a cheese thief, or fisherman from Izmiralda was galloping toward the City of Water.
Maybe Dionnie was right to send him with the forest man, who drew all the attention to himself, while Tanti more or less maintained anonymity.
He sat on the wagon, waiting impatiently, pondering, and bitterly resigned to his situation.
During one of the stops, when he found himself alone on the wagon, he spread the scarf on his knees and studied the map. The direction in which he was going, toward the king’s city, which was in northeast Nautilin, actually brought him closer to where the herons’ beaks pointed. He could deliver the letter to the king and be on his way. It was a few hours’ walk to the border, to the limestone cave where the water sources were. Then again, he’d have to cross the border into Anura, where he was wanted as a fugitive.
Martam Og returned, carrying a huge barrel. He put it on the back of the wagon and jumped up to his seat, not even breathing heavily or sweating. Nothing in his demeanor indicated that a moment ago he’d lifted something so heavy that five people would’ve found it difficult to lift. In his hand, he held a potbellied bottle of wine, from which he drank with pleasure. He offered Tanti a sip, but he didn’t want to start drinking so early in the morning.
While they surveyed the world from the wagon’s high seat, Martam Og took a large slice of pie out of one of the rucksacks Dionnie had given him. He broke it in two and gave Tanti half.
“Good,” Tanti said.
“Good, you say.” Martam Og rumbled. “Amazing, I say. Dionnie’s barodia pie is the best! People are willing to kill for such a delicacy.”
Beyond the bend, a portly man barged into the middle of the road and waved, signaling that they stop. Martam Og pulled the reins with all his might, just before the horses trampled the man.
“Are you crazy?” he yelled. “Do you want to get killed?”
“Not really, no,” the man said. “I just want you to take my tools to Afaf’s store.”
Without waiting for an answer, the man hurried to the side of the road, lifted a bundle of metal work and garden tools, ran, and threw them on the wagon, and then wiped his hands together in satisfaction.
“I had a feeling you’d pass by today. See you.”
“Aren’t you going to pay me?” Martam Og called.
“Nonsense,” the man said. “You’re on your way to the store anyway.”
“Maybe I am, and maybe I’m not,” Martam said calmly. “And maybe I’ll take your pathetic tools to the City of Water’s garbage dump.”
“No, no! I didn’t say I wouldn’t pay. But maybe later, on your way back.”
“Take your tools and bring them to Afaf yourself. He’ll be happy to invite you to lunch.”
Martam Og made a move to climb down from the wagon and throw all the tools off. The man hurriedly pulled some bills out of his pocket and handed them to Martam Og.
Without counting, Martam Og shoved the money into his pocket, jumped up on the wagon, sat down, and clicked his tongue at the horses. The wagon surged forward, barely missing the man, who jumped aside and hurried away in alarm.
“Forest man! Thieving bastard!” the man shouted, waving his fist at the wagon.
Martam Og stopped the wagon. He took the money out of his pocket and threw it behind him. “Here’s a thief for you!” he yelled, and the wagon moved forward again. The man ran to collect his money.
“What about my tools?” he yelled.
“Maybe I’ll give them to Afaf; maybe I won’t. What’s for sure is no one will buy your damaged toys. One good stroke bends them like a noodle.”
They continued, and the man continued standing by the road, his money in his hand, his mouth open in humiliation.
“Ach! These Blues!” Martam Og said to Tanti. “Did you see? Did you see? He calls those tools? I wouldn’t let my baby eat them, just so you know.”
“They look fine,” Tanti said.
“That’s the problem,” Martam Og said. “People in Afaf’s store will buy them, and after using them once or twice, they’ll find themselves with a broken or crooked tool. No wonder everything is crooked with these tools. I’m telling you. My grandfather was a blacksmith. I know how to make tools. I know how to weld the metals, so the tool will be strong and flexible, exactly like it has to be. And how to insert the wood handle into the tool so that it becomes like one mass. You have to understand wood too, but the right combination of metals is what counts. It’s a work of art. It’s a science from time immemorial.”
Martam Og fell silent and sat thoughtfully for a while.
“I’ll tell you a secret,” he said. “I have a plan.” He pulled a stack of bills out of his pocket. “I’m saving this money for my big dream.” He fell silent again.
They traveled a good part of the way without saying a thing. Tanti felt his eyes drooping. He leaned back to nap a bit.
“I have an idea.” Martam Og’s voice jerked him awake. “I’m going to take you somewhere. Then you’ll understand.”
Tanti wasn’t sure he wanted to understand. He wanted to make progress and reach his destination. Yet he knew there was no point in objecting. Martam Og would go wherever he wanted anyway. Especially now, wh
en his eyes were alight with a special gleam, which intensified the moment he started talking about his big dream. He steered the horses onto a path that turned north. Tanti stifled a groan of despair.
After a half hour, Tanti saw signs of a settlement. Before them was a high mountain that bordered it. Houses and various structures were scattered down the mountainside. When they came closer, Tanti noticed a huge, man-made cave. Work facilities were at its entrance, open-sided sheds sheltering them. Smoke billowed from several locations next to the mountain.
Martam Og stopped the wagon.
“This is the place,” he said. “This is where the metal quarries are.” He pointed toward another group of sheds. “And over there is the center where they process the metals. If you look left, you can see the smithies’ stations, where they make products and tools. I’m saving money to buy a plot, where I’ll make the best tools in the country. I tend to visit the blacksmith town quite a lot. It was built next to very rich quarries. But the compounds that they prepare aren’t balanced. They don’t work right. Their metal ratio isn’t accurate.”
“First, I’ll make tools out of a composition to my exact liking.” He continued. “And then I’ll expand my plot. With the profits, I’ll buy more sheds. My dream is to build a large blacksmith factory. Maybe even a blacksmith school. That’s what I want, Tanti. And that’s why I’m on the road. So I can save enough money to buy a plot.”
“Well, what do you think?” he asked after some silence. “Do I sound like a dreamy child?”
“You sound like a man who knows what he wants,” Tanti said. “And I’m sure you’ll achieve your dream.”
Martam Og smiled contentedly. He turned the wagon around and returned to the main road.
They continue making progress, passed by a neighborhood in a small city, rode around the local market, and then Martam Og parked his wagon before a row of warehouses and workshops. He grabbed the huge barrel, heaved it onto his back, climbed down the wagon, and disappeared into the gloomy structure. After several minutes, he walked out and waved energetically at Tanti, gesturing that he come in and join him.
“We’ll rest here for an hour,” Martam Og said. “We’re invited to lunch.”
“Our rucksacks are bursting with food,” Tanti said. “You can eat with your friend on the way back. We should continue now.”
“When Afaf invites you to lunch, you can’t refuse,” Martam Og said. “And of course, you don’t want to refuse.”
He took the pile of tools left on the wagon and turned toward the warehouse. Tanti had no choice. He climbed down from the wagon reluctantly.
They went to a side door and emerged into a spacious inner courtyard, surrounded by two-story residential houses and a wall. A tree grew between the bluish-gray tiles. Beneath the tree, several people sat around a long table. The courtyard was filled with the mouthwatering smells of roasted meat and herbs.
“Gentlemen, Martam Og has arrived with his friend—what did you say your name was?” Without waiting for answer, he shoved Tanti and Martam Og to the table. “Sit, sit. Lunch will be served in a minute,” he said and hurried to the grill to turn the roasted meat to the other side, with much fuss and pomp. The people at the table welcomed Martam Og cheerfully, happy to see him. Afaf’s helpers brought trays laden with salads and meat to the table, and of course, excellent blue wine. Afaf himself, who owned the largest store in town, as well as other stores, houses, and fields, didn’t let anyone disturb him in what was his favorite hobby—cooking and roasting vast quantities of food.
Finally, he also joined the table and added his own jokes and comments to the loud, cheerful conversation.
Tanti looked at Martam Og, who obliterated chunks of meat put on his plate, and wondered what had become of his decision to become a vegetarian for Dionnie. Another half hour passed. The diners became louder and happier, drunk from the wine. Tanti felt he was losing his patience. He sat sulkily and didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to ruin the friendly atmosphere by revealing his impatience.
“Hey, guest, what’s wrong?” someone asked him. “You look as though the sky has fallen on your head.”
“I’m tired. I guess I ate too much.”
“My guest wants to be on his way,” Martam Og said, and Tanti cringed in embarrassment.
“Sit.” Afaf roared. “The meal isn’t over before dessert is served. My wife is a meringue and blackberry cake expert. To miss those treats is pure madness.”
Tanti couldn’t sit any longer. He stood up without knowing what he’d do next. An idea struck him. He was in a town; perhaps he could buy or rent a horse.
Then he sat back down. He thought that if he suggested that he continue his journey alone, he’d hurt Martam Og’s feelings. He didn’t know how the rest of the people sitting around the table would receive his words. He stood again. This party, in the middle of the day, in the middle of the way, was unnecessary.
Knowing there wasn’t anything he could do, he concentrated on taking deep breaths. If he didn’t enter Attunity and calm down immediately, he just might explode.
Just as he started to sit down again, Martam Og stood up, to his great relief.
“I’m going to take a piss!” he said. “Then we’ll load the crates on the wagon and get a move on right away.”
“Can I help?” Tanti asked, happy that they were leaving.
Martam Og paused and lowered his voice. “Usually I manage alone, but you can come with me if you want.”
“I meant…” Tanti started to say, but Martam Og disappeared into the depths of the store.
Had he not been in such a hurry, Tanti would’ve enjoyed the constantly changing landscape. After unloading the wheat at the flour mill, and bringing the wine to the winery, they arrived at a fishermen’s village, which was located on the banks of a big lake. The sight of the tranquil blue lake in the valley surrounded by mountains, the little villages scattered around, the abundant vegetation with the blooming flowers, and the huge happy butterflies dancing around them, made Tanti’s heart swell and pleased him greatly. On the way, they passed a group of musicians, sitting by the side of the road and playing. Their clothes were colorful, their musical instruments decorated, and their music charmingly weeping and rejoicing.
Martam Og pointed at a distant hill in the east. “That’s Hey Hill. That’s where the markets took place. If you want, I can show you the place.”
“No, no need,” Tanti said hastily.
“You’re right,” Martam Og said. “It’s kind of sad to see all those empty pavilions. You know, once a week, on Tuesdays, that’s where the Whites and Blues would meet, bring their produce, and sell it to each other. They sold everything there! Fruits and vegetables, beverages, clothes, and embroideries. They sold art, toys, musical instruments, and flawed work tools. On market day, Whites would mingle with Blues, city folk with country folk, fishermen with craftsmen. The forest people would bring venison and handmade wooden furniture, the Hue-mans their saddles, and even the Reds would occasionally come from their distant country, with wool carpets that they wove out of magnificent colors and knitwear. The Whites traded mostly clay vessels, flourista, food they made from it, and white cheese. The Blues traded their fruit, oils, herbs, and mostly their wine.
“In the afternoon, the Blues would start dancing, passionately and joyfully, the girls whirling around, displaying the dresses that they embroidered especially for those dances, while the men would stamp their feet and compete in acrobatics. Then there were the Whites, row after row, all the dancers wearing identical clothes, their steps sharp and measured. Their dancing was wonderful from what we could see, and their musicians accompanied them with high, delicate notes that bewitched you.
“That’s where I first met Dionnie.” Martam Og chuckled. “Our first meeting wasn’t very sociable.”
“Why?” Tanti asked.
“We arrived there, a gro
up of hunters, displaying our venison. We roasted the meat and sold it as we drank the blue wine, ate some of our meat, and seasoned our meal with all the goods we brought with us. We were next to the food stalls, where there were a few tables and chairs. Dionnie was there, selling her food, which was very popular among all the market comers. They had a little oven that her husband, Marom, had built. He would sit nearby and help her when necessary. He knew how to fix everything that needed fixing. ‘Golden Hands’ he was called.
“The third time I arrived with my band,” Martam Og said, “Dionnie approached us and requested that we set up our station a bit further. ‘We’re vegetarian,’ she said, ‘as are most of our clients. The sight and smell of meat are difficult and unpleasant for us.’
“We refused. We mocked her, even though she was pretty and charming, with that fluttering butterfly in her hair. I let my friends influence me, even though it was my heart’s desire to comply with her request. I was stupid and hotheaded.
“Marom, when he heard us mocking his wife, got up and approached us. A brawl would have ensued just then had Dionnie not stopped him. She pulled him away, and they both left. A ruckus erupted. People started shouting at us to go back to our forests with our stinking cadavers and the like. Others were actually on our side, and said that they liked our roasted deer and spicy partridge skewers. We laughed and enjoyed the uproar surrounding us, which was quite good for business.
“A week later, I remember, it was cold. The wind blew mightily and froze our necks. Dionnie surprised us when she came by, holding a tray of warm barodia pie. She offered it to us, and before we knew it, we ate it all to the last crumb. And I’m telling you, Tanti, never in my life had I eaten something so good.
“After that, she brought us fragrant tea and served it to us. From that moment on, we were entirely defeated. It wasn’t long before we became friends. We have a saying: What the stone won’t break, the soup will melt.”
“Or the tea.”
Journey to Water's Heart Page 19