Falhadn recoiled. “My parents are loyalists through and through.” And I never want to see them again. “You’d have better luck trying to trade with Grand Admiral Uandem.”
The Drysword chuckled, then leaned back in his chair. “I thought that might be the case.”
Falhadn inhaled, exhaled. She placed her palms on the long table and asked, “Did you really think my parents could help? My father is governor of Jevilk, a landlocked tribe.”
“But I knew he was a wealthy man. Jevilk sits a few miles north of the Eastwater, which empties into the Bay of Randlester by way of Sendn. And perhaps he’d want nothing more than to see his lovely daughter again.”
Falhadn shook her head. “You’re right in that. But I don’t want to see him. Or my mother. I haven’t seen them since Falhill and I were married in Eangd. And I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Enough said,” Drea replied. “All I know is this: we will need a miracle to survive the winter.”
Chapter fifteen
The Other Procedure
Tendrils of the sea, indiscernible to the eye, wisped at his brow. Unseen fingers of salt and isolation tickled at the hairs on his neck. A boy played war with two toy boats, and the dawn tide pulled lightly at the single mast dogger.
“Son, look.” The two of them gazed as an orange beam pierced the purple haze. The sky awakened. Pure light emerged from westward waters, and its mirror image sank. The dawning sun painted the ample clouds pink, then orange, then yellow. Finally white. The inferno in the sky marked the day’s commencement. “That’s it. You’re officially four years old.” The boy beamed and hugged his father’s leg.
Balhenhill lifted the boy in his arms and kissed his soft cheek. The father and son could not see land in any direction. Balhenhill preferred the seclusion.
The sun rose above the horizon, and its reflection crept towards the dogger. The small fishing vessel had been constructed from Gray Breeze’s remains, so Balhenhill and his older brother had named it Gray Typhoon. They couldn’t stop laughing about it when they had painted the moniker on the thigh-high hull in white dye. But he’ll never laugh again.
Balhenhill looked into his son’s big green eyes. His name was Henhall the younger. But he didn’t have to be called “the younger” anymore. “Daddy, is it time to catch fish?”
“Now that you’re four, it’s time you held the rod.”
Henhall beamed at the thought. Praise Hrash he’ll be a sailor, Balhenhill mused, like his dad. Like his uncle. The boy squirmed out of his father’s grasp and fell to the wooden slats. He ran to his father’s fishing rod and brought it to Balhenhill with a smile as wide as the sea. He showed the boy how to cast, how to hold, how to reel the catch. On his third birthday, they had hooked the worms to the line, so Henhall already knew how to fix bait.
The boy sat patient in his father’s lap. The still of these waters sank into Balhenhill’s bones. He felt the sway, the pull of the morning tide. He breathed in salmon and saline. A pair of white and brown ospreys descended on a silver mackerel. “Daddy, I wanted that fish.”
“We’re not the only ones who need to eat,” he answered. “Those birds probably live just down the coast from us. Ospreys nest near the coastline.”
“Do they only eat fish?”
“Mostly. If they can get it. I’ve seen an osprey snag a squirrel when the waters were choppy and the fish far off the shore.”
They sat there in remote quiet. The boy’s breathing slowed with the father’s. “Daddy,” he whispered, “would you love me if I became a sailor like you?”
“I would love you whatever you wanted to be. But if you want to be a sailor, then perhaps you could apprentice with me — when the time comes.”
Henhall nodded and began to make clicking sounds with his tongue. “Daddy, Weanhall said that Mommy was a witch. What does he mean?”
“Weanhall doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Mommy is not a witch.”
“Shelberuthall says she’s a False—”
“Shelberuthall doesn’t know what he’s talking about either. Your mother is a perfectly normal lady. She has never been and will never be a witch.”
“Zannahedeen says—”
“I don’t care what Zannahedeen thinks she knows—”
“Daddy, Zannahedeen believes me. She’s nice.”
“Oh,” Balhenhill mumbled, “well, her parents are smart. Just like your parents.”
“She says she wants daisies for her fourth birthday, but I don’t know where I would find daisies. They’re not everywhere like they were back in Old Coast.”
“Your mother could help you find daisies—”
A swift yank. Henhall nearly let go of the rod, but Balhenhill steadied the hunchback dowel. A fish had caught on the end of the line. The father and son laughed and gasped as they pulled a spotted bass from the rippling cerulean.
Henhall reached for the fish but reeled at its convulsions. “It’s only trying to breathe,” Balhenhill told him. “We’ll end his pain.” He drew the black thumblength from his waistpouch and held the fish by its tail. The thumblength slipped between the silver-green scales, and the bass hung motionless. “See. And he’ll make a superb breakfast for your mother. Now let’s catch some more. Two with the rod, for us. And for the storehouse, let’s pray the nets do their job as well.”
Henhall jerked two herring into the dogger, and Balhenhill pulled in the nets. He showed Henhall how to salt and barrel the school of herring he caught. He estimated the nets brought in fifty pounds.
On the return journey, Balhenhill cradled his son. Henhall curled up on the brink of slumber. The boy murmured for a story. The father complied:
“The port town of Meireer, on Old Coast’s western shore — a huge battle happened there. Heroes fought against villains. Swords and bows and arrows and trebuchets and warships and even magic — it was all in the Battle of Meireer.” Balhenhill gently rocked the boy and spoke in a soft cadence. “This was the First Battle of Meireer, and when the evil forces descended upon the humble harbor, the hero fished with rod and net in the Sea of Crusade, within sight of his Meireer cottage. When the forces of good discovered the evil forces meant to slaughter everyone in the town, the hero came ashore and took up arms, ready to defend the women and children of Meireer.
“With horrors untold about to breach the gates, his only worry was his faraway wife. His wife served as neophyte in Meireer before being sent off to the capital to become an ecclesiast in her own right. The hero prayed that his wife was safe and that he could see her one last time before he faced certain death.
“The iron gates were ablaze. The forces of good gaped in awe as their metal barriers disintegrated like parchment in an oven. Horses stampeded into the streets and cut down innumerable innocents. But the forces of good had been able to organize quickly. The foot soldiers of evil stood no chance against the resolve of the innocent. Traps were set, and five hundred evil footmen fell at the feet of good. Even the hero defended dozens of defenseless children when a rabid swordsman dashed into an orphanage.
“But the half-millennium of foot soldiers had only been the vanguard. Evil sorcerers funneled through the gateway. Houses set fire, where there was no tinder. Streets turned to muck, though there was no rain. The sky curdled, the clouds darkened. The evil sorcerers were too strong.
“The hero led the orphans to safety, at the docks, where they could escape. When he started back towards the fray, he came face to face with a sorcerer.”
Little Henhall stirred at this. “Did the hero ever see his wife again? Don’t tell me he’s alone with the evil sorcerer.”
“This evil sorcerer wasn’t evil at all. It was a woman, the hero’s wife.”
“But… What did she do?”
“She wept. She was tricked into marching with the evil forces. But she sought out her beloved husband to save him. They made for the docks and escaped on the Sea of Crusade.”
The boy scrunched his face. “He didn’t fight more?”
“Once the hero had found his wife, he didn’t want to risk dying. He knew it would break her heart.”
“I guess,” Henhall ceded, “the hero did save the orphans. I’m happy he found his wife.” And the boy closed his eyes.
The tall trees emerged on the horizon, followed by the half-constructed lighthouse. Then the makeshift pier jutted into the shallows. If only the hero had saved the orphans, Balhenhill thought. But that was a story for another day. Another far off day. For now, he counted himself blessed. He had found his wife.
Nudntryhill and his son worked the pier today. The son tied thick rope to a post, and the father took the fifty-pound barrel of herring. Balhenhill helped Henhall hop off the side of Gray Typhoon. The diminutive dogger had no gangplank, only a short hull.
“Where are we headed with this barrel?” Nudntryhill inquired.
“Oh, you mustn’t,” Balhenhill replied. “I’ll take it to the storehouse. It’s already been salted. My son can carry our supplies.”
“If you insist,” Laborer Nudntryhill laughed. “Far be it from me to demand that I haul that heft up the Azure Boulevard.”
Henhall swung the bag of supplies across his back. The rod sticking out of the backsack doubled the boy’s height. Balhenhill had bundled the rod-caught fish in salt and parchment and stuffed them in the backsack. By this point, his wife Balhenhadn had to be starving to break her fast. But Balhenhill needed to lug the barrel to its destination.
On the northward hike, Balhenhill and his son passed the Cavern of Congress, Sarahill’s tavern, and the town square — where bartering and haggling carried on all hours of daylight. The simpleton Rudrud paused his harping and winked at Balhenhill. “Sh, it’s that man,” one woman whispered. “He’s married to that witch.” The glances he tried to ignore cut into his chest. Even worse, little Henhall had to endure the glares and the hushed voices as well. But, as he always did, Balhenhill marched on — a sedate smile painted across his jawline.
North of the bustling heart of Independence, rows and rows of hovels and cottages faced the river. Then, farms. Nothing else dwelt north of the town square. Except the storehouse.
The storehouse stood on the edge of the Azure Artery, halfway to the edge of the Northwood. Guarded by farmers in armor, few ever tried to steal a fish or an onion. Homelessness was not a problem in Independence. When the protestants arrived ashore, a house or farmstead was built for every family. Even the simpleton Rudrud lived in a small hovel near the tavern.
But as Balhenhill drew nearer to the storehouse, he heard raised voices.
“My child is starving,” a lady cried. “Our rations have been reduced. He cries for food, but I have none to give him.”
“Please,” the male guard replied, “step back. Take it up with the congress. Congressers Drea and Balgray monitor rations and foodstuffs.”
Balhenhill set down the barrel and approached the two. “Stay here, Henhall, just for a moment.” He ambled towards the squabble. The adulterer Hraghedeen knelt before Farmers Berut and Sithill. “Is there a problem here?”
Even the much-reviled harlot sneered at the ‘witch’s husband’. “No problem you’re a part of.” But Hraghedeen looked behind him and saw his son next to a barrel. “You got fish in there?”
Berut spoke up, “It goes in the storehouse, and you know it.”
Sithill added, “If you are hungry, take it up with Drea or Balgray.”
“It’s them what cut back my rations!” she charged. “Fenhall made a fuss in front of the congress, now his children go hungry. Is that a coincidence?”
“No,” Sithill replied, “it’s a story. A fiction. If your family is truly without enough food, you would take it up with the congress. They oversee how much food is coming and going.”
“Hraghedeen, we’re going to have to arrest you if you insist on obstructing the sailor from bringing in his catch.”
Balhenhill did not wish to be brought into the quarrel, but Hraghedeen rose and ran south. Balhenhill chuckled. “If she had brought little Balfen with her, maybe you’d have had pity on her.”
“Adulterers are liars by nature,” Berut commented. He smirked at Balhenhill before remembering to revile him for his wife’s reputation.
Balhenhill sighed. “Berut, you may be interested to hear that my son told me this morning that your grandson called my wife a witch. Now, how could a four-year-old get such a vicious rumor in his head?”
Berut cleared his throat. “Must be those other kids. What else do four-year-olds have to talk about besides fairytales?”
Balhenhill nodded. Possible, he mused, but unlikely. He turned to Sithill. “Congratulations on the grandson. I know it was hard when the younger one went off to be ambassador, but at least there’s a new member of the family to fill that hole until she returns.”
Sithill grinned. Balhenhill knew this farmer was kinder to him since his daughter Balsithedeen had fancied Balhenhill’s late brother Henhall. Sithill twisted his face. “Gaalhim — a queer name for a newborn. But he is handsome as his grandfather.” The three of them shared a nervous chuckle, and Balhenhill retrieved the barrel and his own son.
Henhall asked, “What was that about?”
“That woman was named Hraghedeen, and she doesn’t think she has enough food to feed her family.”
“Well, we have fish. She could have had some.”
“We let the congress decide where the food goes. Otherwise, every man would try to steal the choicest food for their wives and children.”
“Do you think her children will die?”
“No, the congress will protect us. Drea will protect us.”
Berut opened the heavy door for them to enter. “Now, son,” Balhenhill said, “stay here with Berut and Sithill. Ask them what they do.”
“I can’t go in?”
“Not today. Maybe on your fifth.”
Berut tried not to make eye contact. “The ledger’s inside. You know the procedure.”
“Thank you. And make sure to entertain Henhall. It’s his birthday.”
Inside, barrels and boxes brimmed. Sacks and satchels leaned against crates and bushels. The cavernous storehouse had filled nicely, but it still wasn’t enough for winter.
Balhenhill heaved the barrel of herring towards a score of identical barrels. When he counted and found precisely twenty, Balhenhill exhaled. Time for the other procedure. He dragged the barrel across the crowded aisles of apples and seaweed, barley and boar meat. Balhenhill spotted the discolored rectangle on the floor in the far corner of the storehouse. He reached down and found the indentation. With one swift tug, the false floor flapped open. Balhenhill held the barrel of herring over his head and descended the steep ladder, into the secret underground — unknown to most, including Sithill and Berut.
Forty rungs beneath the earth, he carefully lowered the barrel to the cold, uneven ground. The air sat dank and stale. The darkness pressed against his skin. Balhenhill’s nostrils flared at the faint smell of rot. He pushed the barrel into a corner with eight others.
Curious, Balhenhill walked about the dark chamber, lit only from the small rectangular opening above. Two dozen crates of apples, half a hundred pans of iron and marble, thirty casks of silver-scaled cod. Even high-quality lumber hibernated underneath the forty rungs. Balhenhill decided he should hurry above ground.
No longer below the earth, he shut the false floor. He sped to the ledger, where he recorded his contribution. He scribbled his name. A twinge of shame for his surreptitious deed, but he suppressed it, like he had so many times before.
And he exited the storehouse.
“We’re not so different from your father,” Sithill told Henhall. “He farms the sea, and we fish the land.”
Henhall chuckled at that. He ran to his father’s arms. “Farmer Sithill told me the funniest joke.”
Balhenhill turned to the two men. “Thank you.” And he made for their cottage by the sea.
When Balhenhill had opted for a hovel by the
sea, instead of near his father’s farm, his mother had grown very upset. Even more upset when Balhenhill’s older yet unmarried brother Henhall followed his lead and decided to live next door to Balhenhill.
He held his son’s hand as they arrived at their humble hovel — his wife’s garden framing the egress. Twenty feet away was Henhall’s old hovel. Balhenhill could feel the spirit of his dead brother crawl up his spine. The taste of grief filled his mouth, and the silence where once his brother laughed echoed in his ears.
In his father’s farmstead, Congresser Falhill had said, “All I know is my wife heard a noise on the portico. She opened the door to find Hrabhill the elder pinning Henhall’s corpse to the doorframe with a harpoon.” That had been Balhenhill’s first taste of genuine grief. His and Falhadn’s descriptions made the loss tangible.
And the funeral rites had made for a beautiful sendoff for his brother. Traamis the True had prayed over Henhall’s body as the tide pulled it into the sea. Balhenhill never once wept for his wild brother. But his heart ached. Balhenhadn had been a great comfort, though his little son served as Balhenhill’s reason for living on. But the funeral was a week ago.
“Mommy, we’re home.”
The ill-fitted door creaked open. There stood Herbalist Balhenhadn, draped in dull shades of blue. “Good to hear your voice. I’m famished.” Henhall hugged his mother’s leg. “And it’s good to see you too.” She kissed her husband.
“Mommy, I caught three fish!”
“You did? Do you remember what you do next?”
“Can I brush off the scales? I don’t want to snap off the head though.”
“Of course. Use the wire brush, please. I don’t want to have to buy another clay brush.”
“Thanks, Mommy!” He removed his backsack as he ran for the oven.
“Come inside, darling. It’s chilly.” He obliged though he knew it wasn’t chilly. Perhaps she didn’t even realize she lied, but a solar cycle of scowls and gossiping had taught Balhenhadn to stay out of sight.
The Heirs of History: A Nation From Nothing Page 19