by Coral Walker
“It was a good fight. Even after three days they still wielded their swords with great vigour.” The creases on her forehead deepened while her eyes gleamed strangely. “But then on the night of the third day they simply disappeared.”
Brianna sat taut with attention, head reeling with the clanking of the swords and the commotion they must have aroused when they were found missing. She trembled, partially from the excitement, but more from being cold.
“Can I have my clothes back?” she asked, inhaling deeply.
“There are some clean ones over there,” the old woman pointed to a small pile of folded garments on a table. “Yours are too tattered.”
Putting the locket back, Brianna walked over and took the garments. They looked greyish and plain but supple to the touch. She put them on and marvelled at how well they fitted her, neither an inch too big nor an inch too small, as if they were tailored specifically for her.
“Did you find it?”
“What?”
“The thing you were looking for on my shoulder.”
“I did.”
“What was it?”
“A mark. It was on the back of your shoulder, on your right side.”
“It’s my birthmark.”
“We call it a sign. A person with such a sign was chosen for special things.”
“I’ve always known I have a birthmark,” Brianna was encouraged, “but I couldn’t see it. Some of my friends say it looks like a duck, others say it’s a butterfly or a flower of some kind. One of my friends, Yin — she’s Chinese — told me it looked like the Chinese character ‘Fei’, which means fly. I quite like that.”
“It is a targar — a sign that I’ve foreseen.”
“How could it be a targar? I’m not from here. I have nothing to do with targars.” She gave a short laugh. “How could you foresee it?”
“With the mirror,” said Teilo stepping out from behind the screen. “Aunt Malalea can see things from the mirror.”
Brianna blushed at the promptness of Teilo’s reappearance, but none the less sat still, pretending she hadn’t noticed. Then Teilo’s words sank in and started stirring up a flicker of hope.
“Can you see my parents in the mirror?” She started slowly, but the thoughts streamed in, overwhelming her, and she jabbered, “Where are they? Did they go back to their palace? Why did they just disappear without telling us? Did they know Bo was very upset when he couldn’t find them?”
She paused only to catch her breath. “What about Bo. Where did Ms Upright take him? Is he alright? And Jack — the last time I saw him he was on the rails in the arena. Did he have to fight again?”
Malalea knitted her brows and sounded aloof when she spoke. “That’s a lot of questions. My service is not free.”
“Aunt Malalea!” Teilo’s exclaimed but said no more as if Malalea’s cold glance had pinned his tongue.
“But I have nothing to give.” Brianna flipped her hands to show her the open palms.
“Perhaps you can do chores in exchange.”
“Chores! What chores?” she snorted looking around the room — caked with dust and fluff, every nook and cranny of the room was filled with things.
The gesture made by Malalea guided her puzzled glance to the window nook where soft, brownish fibres were piled into a hill, next to which on a low chair was a timeworn spindle.
“You may spin this pile of fibres into yarn.”
“I’m not spinning yarn!” exclaimed Brianna in dismay. “I don’t have the slightest idea how to do it.”
“Aunt Malalea can teach you,” said Teilo hopefully.
Throwing him an indignant look, she raised her voice. “I don’t want to learn!”
Sitting there and grinding out the yarn — there couldn’t be any chore more tiresome than that.
“Or ...” Malalea added.
“Or what?”
Walking past her, Malalea pushed open a heavy door on the other side of the room. It revealed a small backyard with half of its small area taken up by a vegetable patch, on which seedlings stood with drooping purplish leaves, shrivelling, apparently, from the lack of water.
“Water the vegetables,” said Malalea, looking aloof again.
Following Malalea, Brianna came out into the yard herself. The small size of the plot was encouraging, so she jumped to it. “Deal then. I’ll do it!”
“Alright,” Malalea looked at her, half smiling. “The buckets are over there, and Teilo will show you where to get the water.”
Before she retired into the cottage, Brianna caught an impish gleam in her glacial green eyes, too fleeting to take seriously.
+++
“What? I have to fetch the water from a stream a mile away?” Brianna couldn’t believe what she had just heard.
By the garden gate were two empty wooden buckets, next to which, leaning against the low earthy wall, was a curious, long and tapered pole with ropes and hooks attached to its ends.
“What is that? A carrying pole?”
She said it half-joking, but then with irony she found that the contraption was indeed a carrying pole. With a bemused reluctance, she placed the pole onto her shoulder, arms extended to hold on to the ropes hanging down from both ends, and tilted forwards and backwards to hook up the buckets. But they seemed to have tricky minds of their own — as one was fixed on, the other would slip off.
Teilo wound the hanging ropes around the pole to shorten them, thus making them less prone to swing, and hooked on the buckets for her. She wobbled immediately, struggling to keep the buckets balanced. Any slight dip of the shoulder or stumble of her feet would upset everything.
The start of the journey led down a gentle slope to an extensive wood hedged in by thorny brambles, and was accessed by a narrow opening about the width of a man.
Teilo stopped just outside the opening. “I’ll leave you here,” he said.
“Here!” Brianna gasped, peeking into the wood behind her. Its sinister appearance and ominous gloom were disquieting.
Teilo looked rather apologetic. “Aunt Malalea said I should leave you here. Once you are on the other side of the brambles, you will hear the sound of the stream. Just follow it.”
To her annoyance, he broke into a brisk run, not even turning his head when she shouted for him to stop. Up the hill he went and disappeared.
Aunt Malalea! Aunt Malalea! Why does he have to be so obedient!
She knew the water must still be a long way off, judging by the sound of the stream, which was discouragingly quiet. Worse still, the narrow path was barely visible and flanked by overgrown brambles that kept catching on her flesh and clothes, leaving her with scratches all over and pulling the buckets off their hooks.
When the brambles caught hold of the rope yet again, the struggle became like an exhausting tug of war. She threw a tantrum, flinging the pole to the ground, and sank herself down onto a solitary stone.
Rubbing the scratches on the back of her hands, she sighed. There were so many brambles. They spread over the dead wood like a shroud. Dead wood? It was indeed quite dead. There was no sound of any kind, not even the chirp of a bird, except for the monotonous murmuring of the distant stream.
A small thorny twig brushed her shoulder. Annoyed, she swished it away, but it pricked her hand and prodded her arm as it bounced back. She flinched from the pain, rubbing the cuts with her hand, and felt tears in her eyes. If only Mum were here.
Many times she had wondered why she didn’t take after her mother — the warm colour of her skin, her gentleness and patience. She had always wanted these qualities, as if acquiring them would open a path and lead her to a world free of frustration and trouble. What would she do if she were here?
A light wind blew from behind. Unnerved by the rustling sound of the woods, she stood up and put the carrying pole back to her shoulder.
+++
The current of the stream was rapid. When she dipped the first bucket into it, it pulled it from her and carried it downstream.
At once she ran after it along the uneven bank and soon she was one step ahead. By the bank where she stood, the fast current was slowed by a thick bough that was partially attached to an old, decaying tree. The floating bucket slowed down and now was banging hard against the rough bark of the bough. Without hesitation, she jumped into the turbulent water and reached for it.
The water was frigid, reaching to just below her waist. Her jump had made a splash, and her hurried movements affected the swirling current. The bucket bobbed just a foot away from her and then was unexpectedly carried away. Just before her hand reached it, over the bough it went, shooting heartlessly downstream.
Cursing aloud, she grasped an overhanging branch and tried to pull herself out of the water. The dry branch snapped in her hand, and instantly she fell and was quickly sucked into a whirlpool. When she surfaced after a few mouthfuls of water, she found to her dismay that she was in the middle of the stream.
With mounting desperation, she thrashed with her arms against the strong current, clinging to anything she could get a grip on. A rock she got her hands on slipped from her fingers; a branch she grasped floated along with her. When a young tree came into sight with its lower branches drooping down to the stream, she swam laboriously towards it and took hold of it.
With much stumbling and struggling, she was finally out of the water, dripping and with her teeth chattering miserably. When she turned to look at the stream, her eyes grew wide at the sight of it — looking innocent and calm, it vanished behind a clean-cut horizontal line. From beyond it came the thundering sound of a waterfall.
For a long while, she stood staring blankly, mourning the loss of the bucket that must now be at the bottom of the waterfall.
A deep, hollow voice sounded suddenly behind her, giving her such a scare that her shivering body jerked to attention.
“Is this yours?” said the voice.
She turned quickly to see who was talking, and the shivering returned. In front of her was a tall hooded man. With half of his face hidden under the shadow of the hood, she could see only his protruding forehead with furrows, long and deep like knife gashes.
In his hand was the yellowish-brown bucket that had almost got her drowned.
He raised his head slightly, and she could now see his eyes, deep-set and piercing like the eyes of a beast of prey. His gaze met hers unexpectedly. His eyes slanted, and the skin around the corners folded up as if he were trying to smile. His gaze, nevertheless, was unchanged, and as alert and fierce as before, making his face like a mask pulled by strings under his crinkly skin.
“Ye ... yes, it’s ... m ... mine,” Brianna answered, not sure whether it was the cold or the fear that made her stutter.
“Are you she?” he asked.
“Whooo?”
“The one old woman Malalea is waiting for.”
She was unsure, but deciding a straight answer was best, she said, “I th ... think I am,” and glanced cautiously to see how the stranger would react — if the answer pleased him, she might get the bucket back.
Upon hearing it the hooded man grinned, baring his sharp teeth that gleamed amid the shadows. “What’s your name?”
She pondered, wondering what was the significance of her name to a stranger. But the bucket was in his hand, outstretched towards her. Gazing down, she seemed to see slimy scales covering part of his uncovered forearm. She was intrigued and narrowed her eyes to get a clearer view. The scales faded away before her eyes, and in their place was normal skin, as smooth as the rest.
“Brianna,” she blurted out, not sure what to believe, her eyes or her mind.
Suddenly there was a chanting sound, rumbling somewhere in the air. “Brianna, Brianna,” it said.
The moment that the man waved the bucket for her to take, she stepped quickly forward and held out her hand for it. Before she reached it, the bucket slipped from the stranger’s hand and dropped to the ground. It bounced on the rocks and started rolling away from her. She hurried after it, only to stop short after a couple of strides, alarmed all of a sudden by an eerie swirl of wind, blowing out of nowhere, chilling her back profoundly.
She stood rigid, uneasy in the foreboding silence, and turned abruptly to look in the direction of the man. Her eyes opened wide in shock at the sight of the empty space where the stranger should be. Frantically she scanned the bramble-clogged wood, thinking perhaps to catch a glimpse of him trudging through it. But there was no sign of him — the man in the hood had simply vanished into thin air.
For a while she breathed heavily, not trusting her senses. Before her, the sought-after bucket lay sideways in a small hollow surrounded by tall grass.
As if in a dream, she reached for the bucket. It rocked suddenly, and something the shape of a thick rope leaped out in a flash and bit her on her left calf. She gave a sharp cry, stamped her leg to get rid of whatever was biting her, and turned just in time to catch sight of the tail of a small snakelike thing with silver and yellow rings slithering away into the thick bushes.
She groaned loudly and bent to check the wound — three tiny holes, barely any blood.
Flinching, she took the bucket and started limping along the riverbank. She pondered the oddity of the incident and moaned quietly every time the foot of her injured leg touched the ground.
It must be one of the old fairy Malalea’s tests, she thought hopefully, to make her so fed up that she would give up the chore.
It was easy to dismiss the episode as one of Malalea’s ill-tempered tricks, but the spreading numbness was beginning to panic her. She staggered on, not daring to stop.
Before long she was back to the spot where she had left the other bucket, and this time she fixed the rope from one end of the carrying pole to a low branch of a tree and the other end to the bucket before she dipped it into the stream. Both buckets now were filled with water, and taking them back was the only thing left for her to do. Momentarily, her bleak heart was lit by a dash of hope.
Right away she knew how wrong she was — the two full buckets seemed to weigh a ton. How she trembled with the carrying pole over her shoulder — every bone and muscle in her body moaned under the weight. Worse still, her numbed leg, sluggish as it was, caught the stones on the path, big and small alike, making her stumble. In spite of everything, she somehow dragged her legs and lumbered on.
She didn’t see the water splashing out, drenching her feet; nor did she see him running towards her. The path under her feet was all that she saw.
“Brianna!” Teilo was shouting at her, pulling her arms, trying to remove the load from her shoulder. She ploughed on as if he were only a clinging bramble.
She didn’t want to stop. Neither could she stop.
He tried harder and tore the pole from her shoulder. Irritated, she stopped and turned. She intended to be angry, but then her legs gave away, and the wood grew dark all around her.
She swayed and fell into Teilo’s opening arms.
7
Fire
The maid was dressing him. Why should he feel embarrassed, as if he had never been dressed by a maid before? The life he used to have flashed into his mind — in a grand house, gleaming with silverware and gold-threaded tapestries, servants and maids in their bright blue and yellow livery attending to his every need, including dressing him.
“Can you see that?” he asked quietly.
Silence.
Ornardo felt a flicker of annoyance. It was unfair that, while he was in the full light of consciousness, that boy Jack was withdrawn into the shadows of his mind, observing.
“Would you like to talk?”
— I don’t like them to dress me.
The voice seemed as insubstantial as a light mist. He was still worried about that, Ornardo laughed.
— We always dress ourselves.
“Who’s the ‘We’?”
— People from my world. Earth people or Ertharan as you might call us. We don’t often see each other naked.
Putu placed him on a
reclining rocking chair by the window. After that, while Cici and the maid were watching, he went on to bind him by the ankles and wrists with ribbons and colourful strips of fine cloth — soft accessories that must have been found from Cici’s drawers.
The soft fabric was tight against his skin.
Why would Cici allow him to be tied up? His anger flared up, and he wanted to make a fuss and kick. But his limbs were too sleepy to respond.
— She's tying me up. Remember it is my body really. Perhaps she believes I am her slave and is worried that I might be the one taking charge of the body.
“How abhorrent!” he gasped, “The son of Lord Doluli, the richest man in Bara, is trapped in the body of a slave!” An uncontrollable rage rose inside him and almost detached him from the shell of the body.
— Humph!
He heard Jack snort back.
— How dare you call me a slave? I am just a visitor from somewhere far away.
The pride in his tone surprised him. It was distinctive, not at all like a slave. But a rule was a rule. “That doesn’t stop you from being a slave. You should know that any non-blue person who appears in the land of Bara, unless they are invited, is regarded as ‘Tar’, which means people with no rights. Whoever catches such a person is their owner.”
— I landed outside of Bara, in Death Canyon.
“In Death Canyon? It’s full of bokwas. You’re lucky they didn’t tear you apart. It’s quite common for folks here to go out of Bara to hunt. They travel as far as the boundary of Rion. Sometimes they hunt for beasts and sometimes slaves. Young slaves are always the favourite.”
— That's so unfair. How could you just catch someone and make them a slave!
“That’s how things work here.”
— What do they do with the slaves?
“Make them work, of course, household servants, bakery shops, mines. We don’t like to keep adult slaves because we believe they bring bad luck. When they get older, we sell them to the arena and make them fight to the death.”
The arena, the magnificent and boisterous arena. The very mention of it made it come alive in his mind. Many times he had gone with his father and brought home a heavy bag of golden coins. How the noise and colours had haunted his mind for days afterwards.