“I’m scared.”
“You got away from them, Arisan. This evil Mabul and all his soldiers couldn’t catch you. So who’s the smart one here, tell me.”
“They didn’t catch me. They didn’t.” She smiled. “And I walked on the trees. No one thought I could cross the swamp and all those mountains over there. My feet were cut, but I knew they wouldn’t search for me among the rocks.”
“You see, my dear. You’re strong and smart. Good has power too.”
“Good has power too,” Arisan whispered.
One day after Zoded left, leading the group of volunteers, Iralu invited the women of the association to her house. She wanted to set up a plan meant to support the army of volunteers, collect money and food, organize a transport network that would follow their route and location, and provide what they needed. The women of SPPN were well versed in public actions. This time, their activity was widespread. They needed to cooperate with other associations and individuals from other villages and settlements around the country.
Iralu knew she wouldn’t be able to hide Arisan for long. She’d heard that strangers had appeared in Tipin Village and asked questions. She had to come up with a cover story explaining the girl’s presence, without raising the slightest suspicion that this was the girl the strangers were searching for.
Nakod was the one who suggested Arisan dress as a boy. That would solve the problem of Arisan’s hair, which was curly and emphasized her foreignness. Iralu also cut her black curls into a boyish cut and dressed her in Zoded’s clothes. An embroidered cap with a tiny visor definitely added charm. The clothes, which were too big on her, hid her figure, and the hat covering her forehead, just like the youngsters of Nautilin wore them, slightly hid her gentle features and gray eyes. It was easy to mistake her for a boy if one didn’t hear her soft, melodious voice.
When the women of the association came to prepare supplies for the volunteers, Arisan dared emerge from her hiding place and join them, packing the food silently and with agile hands.
Iralu told the women of a cousin from the Gairan district who had sent his son Sahur to her after his wife passed away, when tragedy struck their home. The boy, who couldn’t save his mother and young brother from a burning house, was in shock and had lost the ability to talk. The grieving father started drinking, and Iralu decided to take the poor boy under her wing, since no one was taking care of him and supporting him. The story was whispered from woman to woman, so that the poor “boy” wouldn’t hear them and his grief wouldn’t overwhelm him again.
The women accepted her story unequivocally. They showered love and pity on the “orphan,” and every day brought him little gifts, tasty treats, and clothes. Arisan kept silent, while her slender hands did the work given to her.
The women had already left, after finishing their work and concluding the exciting meeting, in which they had planned their next steps and the association’s new goals during times of war.
Iralu went to sit next to Arisan.
“Child,” she said, putting her arm around her shoulder. “I must leave. Tomorrow.”
“I know,” Arisan said. “I heard you.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll be gone a few days. Don’t worry. Nakod will keep you safe, and some of my friends staying in the village will visit you.”
“I want to come with you,” Arisan said. “I want to help you.”
“Your help at home and on the farm is extremely necessary and will allow me to leave. Besides, it’s better that not many people see you.” Iralu touched her head gently. “And not ask questions. You can help sort and pack, if you want. We have a lot of work and will need more working hands when my friends and I ride around the country.”
The sun started setting behind the mountain. Clouds were gradually painted red, blue, and gray.
“I’ll stay, dear Iralu, until you tell me to leave.”
Nakod stopped working and turned to them.
“Consider our home your home, Arisan. I mean, Sahur,” Nakod said. “You’re wanted and loved by us.” Iralu nodded.
Arisan’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you,” she whispered. Then she raised her head. “Iralu, will you see him?”
“I’ll see Zoded, of course,” Iralu said. “We’re supposed to provide food and provisions.”
“Zoded, he had to go.”
“Yes.”
“So do you.”
“So do I.”
“Tell him I’m staying here.”
“I’ll tell him. I’ll also tell him how much help you are at home.”
Arisan blushed. “You’ll tell him?”
“Of course. He’ll be pleased to hear that.”
“And he’ll be back.”
“Of course. After the war.”
The two women looked at each other pointedly. They didn’t want to think about the future. War was a vague notion and concern was yet to come.
The next day, Iralu and her friends left, riding their horses among the nearby and distant settlements and villages all over Nautilin, fanning the flames of heroism and recruiting new volunteers to the Blue army. Upon arriving at the settlements, they set up centers that provided food and equipment for the soldiers and transport networks, which transported supplies to their destination. Word of Iralu galloping on her horse spread all over the country and gained fame. People responded to her summoning, and lines of volunteers started flowing toward the City of Water, on the heels of Zoded and his friends.
Chapter 34
Letters
Tanti was busy from morning until evening, preparing the horses, teaching the riders, training the horse trainers—nice young men who responded willingly to his instructions. On the other hand, their sporadic appearances and disappearances from the training grounds disrupted the plans that he labored over from the moment he returned to his room. It was one thing to train a horse you were given as a gift, while your kind, experienced father guided you every step of the way. It was another thing to build a cavalry from horses gathered from all over the country and young men who knew nothing about order and discipline. He had promised Balanter and the king that he would train the cavalry, and he meant to keep his word, even though he didn’t know where to start. What did the horses need? What did the cavaliers need? How did a battle progress?
Balanter insisted that even if Tanti wasn’t experienced, he knew more than other Blues. He kept his word and provided him with equipment, advisors, and experts.
Tanti tried to remember everything his father had taught him. He called Zanef, the old head groom, and together they sat down to write a work plan. Zanef turned out to be a well of knowledge and experience in the field of horses and the inner workings of his compatriots, and he knew to warn Tanti of conflicts and misunderstandings with his subordinates.
After several sleepless nights, during which he built training and practice plans, he starting working the field. With the horses he got along quickly, even though they were of different breeds and backgrounds. The future cavaliers were those who surprised him and contradicted him daily. Even Zanef’s warning hadn’t prepared him for what came next. The young Blues sometimes arrived one or two hours later than the set time, calm and smiling, not understanding Tanti’s frustration. As far as they were concerned, they had the entire day before them, they had finished their breakfast, and they were ready for his orders. Every so often, someone would show up, and they would have to start the training from the beginning, while those present hurried to help him and explain what they understood, or thought they understood, delighting in showing off their knowledge and advantage over the latecomers.
They were quick to understand, yet hotheaded. Brawls were constantly breaking out among them, and then calmed down quickly when friends interfered, ending with a handshake and an embrace.
Tanti had to search for ways to center them, to teach them discipline and order.
“You have to train them,” Zanef said.
“People aren’t horses. You can’t punish them if they’re disorderly or feed them a sugar cube if they obey.”
“Why not?”
Why not? That question resonated in his ears all day.
The next day, the latecomers weren’t allowed to mount the horses. They were assigned service and cleaning chores. At the end of the day, Tanti conducted a lineup during which he praised those who had arrived on time, and those who had worked hard and excelled.
The delays became fewer. Tanti persisted with the lineups and made the punishments worse until the late arrivals stopped altogether. The young boys desperately wanted to receive praise during the lineups. The group started taking shape. They progressed quickly. The young Blues, most of them close to his own age, learned how to walk with the horses as though with pets. Sometimes, right in the middle of practice, two or three of them would decide to compete among themselves while lying down on the horse, standing on one leg, or riding backward. They’d gallop like acrobats in the circus, finish their race, and come to him to hear his praise. Tanti couldn’t decide whether to punish them for disrupting the training sessions, or allow them to develop their riding skills in their own way. In the end, he declared weekly races, divided the youths into groups, and even allotted time to practice for the races.
His soldiers worshipped him and obeyed his orders. “They consider training an entertainment.” He complained to Afleck, the loyal servant who continued accompanying and serving him. “How can I train them to be soldiers if they won’t stop playing?”
“Give them sticks. Let them play war games. The one who manages to jab his friend’s body with his stick, wins. Give them padded clothing, so they won’t hurt each other. That way, they’ll practice real-life battles.”
The Neotim horses were a beautiful breed, strong, sturdy, and light-footed, and stubborn and difficult to train. They were very dark, that same gleaming black that captured shades of deep blue, which alternately appeared and disappeared.
Tanti chose three of the Neotim to train himself. A stud, a mare, and a foal, half-trained. The two adult horses were easygoing and obedient. The young one, Larimer, was rebellious and evasive. He had four white “socks” and a white diamond on his forehead. He was more powerful than he looked.
Tanti feared that his many failed attempts to regain his seat on the horse’s back, which resulted in tumbles to the ground, would hurt his status in the eyes of his subordinates. He continued riding Larimer, even after his boys retired after a long day of training. He worked himself to the point of exhaustion. Finally, when he managed to ride Larimer, he knew he was his own personal horse and he wouldn’t give him to anyone.
His subordinates admired him greatly. They loved and worshipped their commander. Their admiration grew when they saw him riding Larimer and doing whatever he wanted.
Tanti remembered his horse Gayalo. He would’ve enjoyed the equestrian ruckus in this place.
There were days when Tanti acutely felt his distance from home, from everything familiar. He missed his family, the warmth and closeness, and his home and friends. Yet his confidence had grown. He was no longer the mocked youngest son. His authority was as high as a general’s, and he learned to exercise it. He made decisions. He was in charge of young boys and was teaching them. His position demanded a broader view. He had to think of the consequences of every step he took. He consulted with others, his perception growing sharp.
The rain caught him on his way to his small room at the edge of the orchard garden. He’d abandoned the Basket Room. At his request, he was given a small room, far from the hubbub of the palace. And entering it didn’t involve getting lost in the twisting corridors. The door to his room opened toward the royal garden, which was abundant with plants—ferns that looked like the arms of live creatures and huge flowers in bright colors. Even though the cavalry training didn’t leave him much time to visit the garden, he loved returning to his room in the evening, walking along the path beneath the generous treetops, and falling into his bed just to sleep deeply in the silence surrounding him.
Now, he jogged lightly as the rain pummeled him, soaking him and the patient trees on both sides of the path. He almost didn’t notice the bird standing on his windowsill, tapping the window. When he opened the door, the bird swooped in, following him inside before he had a chance to close the door on it.
“What the he—” he started saying, as he took off his cape and shook the rainwater off of it. Then he noticed that the bird was a black, long-necked mail bird, a Runya. It looked pathetic with its wet and bedraggled feathers.
It stood on the back of an armchair and ruffled its feathers, spraying the blue velvet cover with water. Then, before Tanti could prevent it, it emptied its tiny stomach, adding another sign of its presence. Its beady round eyes stared at him defiantly, as though saying, I expect from you appropriate hospitality for a bird of my station, or do you mean to shoo me out, like those stupid people, thinking only of their own convenience?
“I wouldn’t think of it,” Tanti heard himself say.
He went to the kitchen corner, grabbed a towel, and approached the bird cautiously in order not to startle it. It didn’t budge. He dried its feathers and the surrounding moisture, and removed the viscous blob that left a yellowish stain on the royal blue material.
That’s better, the bird confirmed with a nod. And now, what about those vanilla cookies? It took flight and landed on the small kitchen table.
“Vanilla cookies? I don’t think I have any.”
You can always find semolina cookies in the third drawer of every decent house.
Tanti wasn’t sure if he was actually hearing the bird or imagining it. When he opened the drawer, he found black cubes wrapped in waxed paper. He sat down, and while the bird pecked the baked semolina cube seasoned with honey and caramel, he asked himself if he was losing his mind. Soon, he’d invite it to jasmine tea and they’d chat about this and that.
Then he noticed a rolled piece of paper between its claws. A letter. Of course. He leaned closer, carefully untied the delicate string, and put the letter in the basket in the center of the table. When Dionun came, he’d give him the letter that was surely intended for him. The bird picked up the paper with its beak and flung it on the table.
Tanti smiled and returned the tiny piece of paper to the basket.
Again, the bird took the paper out.
“I’m tired, sweet bird. Too tired for games. Tomorrow, when I wake up, I’ll send someone to find Dionun. You can stay here and gather your strength. I’ll leave the window open for you.”
The bird looked at him with its round, light blue eyes, surrounded by gold and black rings, tilting its head right and left. Then it bent down and pushed the letter with its beak.
Tanti reached out and took the paper. He straightened it, expecting to find an arrowed letter.
The letters on the page were familiar. Excited, he started reading.
“Dear Tanti,
“You did well when you sent a sign of life with the mail bird…”
“I sent it?” Tanti said. “When did I do that?” He continued reading.
“I think you’re not far from your destination.
“Don’t worry about the delay forced upon you in the past days.
“Do what you have to do, and you will arrive in one piece to your destination.
“Your family misses you and loves you.
“Your brothers are reaping great success in their new positions.
“The roads today are safer for passage than ever before.
“The people of the Water Farm send their blessings.
“They were happy to hear that you were healthy, in one piece, and persisting with your quest.
“Be levelheaded, beware of black-clad Blues, bypass the swamps, and stay away from loaded wag
ons.
“Izmeran is waiting for your return.
“Godspeed.
“Indolan Mariomel Ofan Aklivor.”
Tanti finished reading the letter, his heart pounding. Then he read it again.
“Indolan Mariomel Ofan Aklivor.” He repeated Aklivor’s full name.
“Thank you, loyal Runya, for flying all the way here.” He stroked the bird’s head with the tip of his finger. It avoided his hand and flew to the windowsill, leaving behind semolina crumbs and another yellowish blob. When it arrived at the windowsill, it settled inside a half-withered plant. Tucking its head inside its feathers, the bird fell asleep.
Tanti cleaned the table and read the letter again, trying to understand what Aklivor meant when he wrote “beware of black-clad Blues.” Perhaps he meant “beware of black cats” or “beware of black rats”?
Tanti looked at the bird folded into itself, peacefully sleeping.
“Oh, Aklivor.” He sighed. “You tell me to persist in my quest, and at the same time, you’re glad that I’m staying here. Isn’t that a contradiction in terms? I want to help the Blues who’ve been forced into a war, and what am I doing? Helping them hit, hurt, and kill. And what reason do I have to desire the death of the Whites?
“I’m glad for the growing number of my troops, who are improving their skills daily. I must make decisions every day and plan my steps. The Blues are grateful for my help. And I know that I gain more than I give. Every day is a day of learning. Maybe my capacity as commander of the cavalry will prepare me for the next stages of my quest. I’ll continue with the rest of my journey more confidently and wisely.
“What is war, my dear teacher? People sinking steel into each other’s hearts. People hurting the other side. Leaving a hurting victim agonized or lifeless, his family orphaned and bereaved. I’m full of questions and have no one to answer me. Here, I’m the commander. They come to me, trust me. Straighten your back. Press in your heels. Fall in line with the rest of the riders, boy. Gallop. Where to?”
“Your heart is full of confusion,” Avona had told him at the Water Farm. “Give it a name, and then let it go. Let the pain course through you. Don’t try to trap it. It’ll pass and go its way. What is good and pleasant will remain and empower your soul.”
Journey to Water's Heart Page 29