At one table, a woman lowered her voice. “So I heard that Aunt Cecy—”
“The one in Coe Dobila?” a second woman asked.
“That’s right, she cursed her husband.”
“No! What did he do?” the second hissed.
“He cheated on her, of course.”
“I can’t believe Aunt Cecy, our very own Aunt Cecy… Do you believe she really used magic?”
“I can’t believe it myself, but I’ve wondered…”
At the bar, Hermer and Morton were speaking softly with one another, Smidge nursing a drink quietly beside them. Hermer said, “So we’ll have to go into Pinal, and—”
“What about Pakka?” Smidge asked, interrupting him. “Or Pakric, as they want to be called.” He rolled his eyes. “Pakric might mean ‘beauty,’ or something like that, but Pakka is still Pakka, desert.”
“That’s settled down,” Hermer said. “They won’t be bothering us for a long while.”
“There’s still the Zariens,” Smidge muttered.
“But the desert people don’t go outside their own territory; everyone knows that,” Morton remarked. “We’re safe here in our own country.”
“Except for the hill bandits,” Smidge added.
“Right, which is why they’ve got to be stopped,” Hermer said. “I mean, they’re destroying our trade. If we can’t move things in between towns and cities within our own borders, how can we trade with other nations?”
“Or fight with them,” Smidge muttered sarcastically.
“Exactly,” Morton said, but then he stopped. “Wait a moment…,” he said, and the three fellows argued some more.
* * * *
Geda’s temper was about to erupt. He stood with his wife in their private quarters, discussing Basha, a subject that always seemed to cause irritation between them. “Habala, you were always saying—”
“I didn’t say anything about him being—”
“You’ve always put him up on a pedestal, a pedestal, Habala! Just because his mother might have been—”
“I didn’t do or say anything like that!” Habala said, stamping her foot. “Basha is my son, but he’s no better than Oaka! They are equals!” she insisted. “You were the one who always said he was a balnor.”
“No, I didn’t! I swear I—”
“You want Basha to leave! You want Oaka to have sole ownership of the inn, so you pushed Basha into the militia, didn’t you, just so he’d have a chance at the Border Guards, and leave us all behind!”
“It’s better than what he’ll get here!” Geda insisted.
“It doesn’t seem right,” Habala muttered. “And now look at the mess he’s in!”
“Are you blaming that on me too?” Geda glared at her.
She huffed out a breath. “Of course not. I’m just worried. All these fools coming here from across the country, just to hear the rantings and ravings of some woman who claims to be the voice of the goddess Mila. It’s insane! Why would the town council leave all of the decision making power to a false oracle?”
“If I were on the town council—” Geda began.
“Well, you aren’t on the town council because of your criminal history,” she said. “And what’s wrong with our town that a real oracle wouldn’t settle near it?” Habala asked as she glared at her husband.
“Nothing, Habala, nothing.”
“I know our town isn’t the best-regarded place, but I love our town. I’m proud to call Coe Baba my home. I’m proud to have been born and raised here, to raise my children here, and to be married to a man who comes from here. This is a place where children are free to grow up, however they want, and call this place home forever. I want to be buried here!”
Geda finally smiled at her. “Me, too. Now…” He took hold of her shoulders and kissed her cheek. “…why don’t you go serve our guests?”
Habala grumbled, but she went. She was tired of arguing.
* * * *
Oaka looked up from wiping down the bar as Habala strode into the common room. “Mother, can I go outside, just for a minute?”
Habala sighed. “Fine, Oaka, but be back soon.”
Oaka slowly nodded, feeling like a child as he walked out from behind the bar. He slipped past the tables and out through the front door. He didn’t want to stay in there any longer, with all the tension between his mother and father and wondering if Basha would be leaving.
He breathed in the light breeze. It was cool, as the Sna season had just passed, and he buttoned up his jacket to shield himself from the wind as he walked along the main road. It was quieter than usual. He must be at the town meeting, he thought, wondering how it was going. He thought about Basha traveling alone to Coe Pidaria all on his own. He felt guilty for telling Basha he wouldn’t go with him. How could he let Basha go off on such a dangerous mission alone? How he could he live with himself if something happened to him? Or perhaps worse, something happened to him and they knew none of the circumstances leading to his death or even where he was buried. He just vanished.
Oaka did want to live in Coe Baba with Sisila and raise a family here with her, at least for a while, but he didn’t share his mother’s wish of wanting to be buried here. Basha did, and Oaka knew he owed it to his brother to help see that happened, but how could he leave Sisila with the worry of perhaps never seeing him again?
Suddenly, he stopped. “Sisila?” She was walking toward him, and if he wasn’t mistaken, there were tears in her eyes.
“Oh, Oaka!” she cried, rushing toward him. They embraced in the middle of the road.
“Sisila, why are you crying?” Oaka asked, facing her and wiping away some of her tears.
“I was coming to see you. I thought you might have gone to see the oracle with Basha and Old Man, and had left with Basha—”
“Sisila, in the first place, I’d never go anywhere without telling you goodbye. Secondly, I’ve already decided not to go,” he said, hugging her again.
“Oaka? What do you mean you won’t go?” Sisila asked, pushing back from him and peering up at him.
“I told Basha he was on his own. I love you, and I won’t leave you,” Oaka said, kissing her.
“Oaka, how can you say a thing like that?”
“Sisila, you were the one who told me a week or two ago that we couldn’t support him for the rest of his life.”
“I meant in Coe Baba, I…Oaka, I’m sorry, I just can’t stand it. I hate it when you seem so heartless and cruel.”
“Heartless and cruel!” Oaka exclaimed. “Sisila!”
“It just seems like you’re abandoning Basha to his fate, to his death, and that’s worse. I’m sorry, Oaka.” Sisila said, looking away from him.
“It’s all his fault!” Oaka cried. “It’s all because of him that stupid—”
“Yes, it’s true, all right? It’s true that Basha took a risk, and he was foolish, but we can’t just let him die out there. We’ve got to give him one last chance. One last chance to help him live.”
“But he will take that one last chance and drag me to the ends of the earth.”
“Oaka, I don’t want to lose you, but he’s your brother and friend. And we are his family and friends. I’m almost his sister-in-law now,” Sisila said. “Basha isn’t strong enough to survive this trip on his own, but with you by his side, together you both have a chance. Together you’re both stronger than you ever could be apart. You can survive this journey with him.” Sisila looked down. “And you’ll always wonder, if you let him go on alone, if you will be to blame for his death. And I’ll always wonder if you’re brave enough, strong enough, to survive the rigors of life without him. You two have been together for such a long time I can’t imagine what life would be like for you without him, and what it would be like for me as well.”
“Sisila, do you really think we could survive this trip?”
“I know so,” Sisila said, kissing him again and again. “For in my heart of hearts, I know you two will survive, and you will ret
urn to me, safe and sound. And I’ll be waiting for you, Oaka, like I always do. And we’ll have a white wedding, with daisies and daffodils.”
“No orchids,” Oaka said in between kisses.
“Too exotic?” Sisila remarked.
“My Sisila, whatever did I do to deserve you?” he asked.
“You did a lot, Oaka, you did a lot,” she said, kissing him once more.
* * * *
Hastin sat at home, staring out the window. He didn’t go anywhere near the town hall that day, not after what had happened to him at the Courtship Ritual and at the militia tryouts, not to mention the day Basha first kissed Jawen. He’d suffered enough humiliation already to last him a lifetime.
* * * *
It was early afternoon when Basha and Old Man reached the camp of the worshippers of the Oracle of Mila. They dismounted, tying up the animals to a tree and putting nosebags over their heads. “There are places in this world where shadow and spirit meet,” Old Man said, as if he was quoting lines from the legends, “and in these places you will find an oracle or soothsayer of some kind.”
“Is this all they do?” Basha asked, ignoring Old Man as he looked around at the campfires and dozens of people scattered about the clearing. “Wait around for the oracle to come visit?”
“No, they are waiting to enter the Cave of Wonders,” Old Man said, pointing to the rock formation on the other side of the clearing. “Just stick with me, Basha, and don’t get lost in here.”
They set off across the clearing, Basha following close behind Old Man as they pushed their way through the people. “Excuse me, pardon me, coming through …” Old Man said to the people eating lunch, practically barging through some of their campsites as they grumbled crossly at his actions. Old Man just ignored them. “When you address the oracle,” he told Basha, “ask her for your prophecy, and be sure to call her O Great Oracle, all seeing and all knowing. That should do the trick,” he added, looking forward again. “Shows her respect.”
As they approached the cave, a guard called, “You’re supposed to wait with the others.” He stepped forward from where he stood beside a large table stacked with small sacks of food and money. Basha glanced back and noticed a few somber men dressed in priestly robes, collecting from the people who waited to see the oracle.
“Do you know who I am?” Old Man said, raising his head.
“Good afternoon, Old Man, and welcome to the Cave of Wonders!” a priest cried, coming forward. “Let him pass,” the priest said to the guard.
The guard obediently stepped aside to let Old Man pass, eyeing Basha as he followed along behind.
“Old Man, have you been here before?” Basha whispered, wondering if he should remark upon the donations.
“Once or twice,” Old Man muttered. “We’ve come for this young man’s future to be told,” he said louder, indicating Basha.
“Oh, another disciple!” the priest cried.
Basha shirked from that label and looked down at the table, wondering if he’d have to pay. “What an honor it is to be seeing the Oracle of Mila for the first time—” The priest continued.
“He will not pay,” Old Man said. “The town council of Coe Baba will be taking care of any charge you levy against him.”
“Really? Well, he must be very important,” the priest said, eying Basha now.
Basha squirmed under his stare, never one to favor close scrutiny, especially from such an unscrupulous-looking fellow.
The priest gathered up paper, pen, and ink. “The town council hardly ever associates themselves with us,” the priest said. “I suppose we can drop the charge for now, seeing as how you’ve been a good friend to us in the past, Old Man, and this is an unusual case, I deem.” The priest glanced back at Basha, still curious about him, but then started toward the cave.
“If you will follow me, and please grab a torch to bring along, Old Man. I’m afraid everything would catch fire if I tried to hold a torch, with my hands so full!” The priest laughed nervously before turning to enter the cave.
“This is strange,” Basha said as Old Man went to fetch a torch and light it at one of the cook fires.
“It gets stranger,” Old Man said, following after the priest with Basha just behind.
The priest ambled down the dark, slanting tunnel as if it was a corridor in a fine palace, while Basha stared around at the deep-seated roots of the trees from above, almost fearful these roots might reach out and grab him, especially with the way the priest was talking.
“Please, don’t approach the oracle within more than a few feet; she must have her space to think,” the priest told them as they continued. “Now, you may experience some strange sensations while the Oracle is speaking, and see things that are not normal, but don’t panic. Try to remain calm. It’s all a part of the process.”
“How can any of this be a part of some normal process?” Basha asked, gaping at the back of the priest’s head before a skittering bug climbing up a root made him flinch.
They stepped out of the mouth of the tunnel into a large cavern, their feet echoing in the void. They headed toward an assortment of stalagmites at the far end of the cave, where another light was burning, although faintly. Basha squinted in the meager light to see what was beyond where the priest had stopped them. There was a rug laid out upon the floor, stretching from beside the foot of a brazier to the legs of a wooden stool. Crouched down upon the stool, with her hands gripping the seat, the Oracle of Mila muttered to herself with the shades of the stalagmites concealing most of her features.
“I present to you the ancient Oracle of Mila, who perceives the course of future events,” the priest said. He settled himself upon the rug beside the brazier, spreading out his supplies in front of him.
Basha was able to see more as his eyes adjusted to the faint light. The person was covered with thick, fur-like black hair from the top of her head down to her shoulder blades and arms, with some along her legs as well. She wore a raggedy piece of clothing, not a proper dress or a suit of shirt and breeches, but something that merely covered her nakedness. She was short—he judged she wasn’t even four feet tall—but rounder than an ordinary human with a barrel-shaped rib cage and a long torso for her size. But she was definitely a grown woman; he could tell.
“This is the oracle?” Basha gasped. He’d not expected much, as a matter of fact, beyond some strange woman, an ordinary human, who sat around telling fortunes to those who came to visit her. She was grotesque, not even human. Her head was small, with a short, jutting forehead, an enlarged brow, a pointed nose, and a face that extended down to her mouth. She’d no chin to speak of. She moved her head and shoulders a bit, agitated by their presence, but she didn’t move off of her chair.
“She’s dwelled here within the Mila Forest, underneath the earth from which Popo rose up, since before humans came to settle this land!” the priest exclaimed excitedly.
“She’s not human?” Basha wondered out loud. He was shocked.
“Well, not quite human,” the priest said as he picked out his favorite pen. “She’s related to us, as far as we can tell, by some ancient ancestor, but she’s diverged into some other state of development.” He looked up. “Notice the—”
“All right, all right, we can see,” Old Man said, stopping the priest from explaining any more. “I just hope you weren’t going into that ape theory again.”
Her arms were different from his as well; her upper arms didn’t seem to bend and twist as much as his did. Clutching her chair seemed to stretch them as far as they could go. And her long collarbones matched a wide set of shoulders.
“Can she talk, and walk, like the rest of us?” Basha asked the priest, whispering now. He wondered if she could hear them. He squinted as she turned her narrow, elongated head, which stretched back to what appeared to be a bump on the back of her head.
The priest fluttered some paper, muttering, “Ape theory; of course it’s real. She can walk, but it’s more bent over, and she has speech,
but it’s the Old Language she speaks.” He looked up at Basha, who was staring at him and at the oracle. Her legs were short, bowed, and bent a little bit to accommodate the roundness of her body, and her long feet resting on the cross braces of the stool looked as strong and robust as the rest of her.
“She’s not learned to speak the Common Language yet.” The priest marveled, as if he still couldn’t get over it, and explained, “She understands the Common Language well enough, but it came to her so late in life she’s not fluent in it. She’s lived longer than any human, including you, Old Man, because she was discovered by humans only three thousand years ago. And even then, she was old.” He laughed.
“Older than three thousand years.” Basha gasped, astonished. He shook his head. “I need to know my future,” he said, “but if we speak how will I understand her or she me?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll translate her response and hand you the finished prophecy,” the priest told him. “I know the Old Language well enough to understand her.”
“It’s okay, Basha,” Old Man said. “Speak to her, and she will understand you.”
Basha cleared his throat, a little uncertain about this. “I, Basha, wish to ask you, O Great Oracle, all seeing and all knowing…I wish to go on a quest to retrieve Tau’s Cup for a girl I want to marry. Should I go?”
The figure paused in her mumbling and slanted her head as if listening to something as ephemeral as a breeze and as ethereal and eternal as the stars. The void around them seemed to pulse. Then the darkness was tinged with amethyst light streaking across their field of vision.
Basha blinked, feeling dizzy as the oracle began to speak loudly with phrases that sounded almost like the Common Language. The ancient words seemed so unfamiliar when he tried to understand them. He was amazed the priest could keep up with translating them when her pace started to pick up. Yet the pen raced across the page, regurgitating the translation almost as fast as she spoke it, and the light in the cave seemed to fluctuate with every word she uttered, as if some distant fire down below, lit right underneath their feet, could hear and reflect her words. And the light and the smoke from that distant fire danced to the sound of her voice. Finally, her words started to slow and then they stopped entirely as the light from the distant fire faded away, leaving only darkness.
The Smiling Stallion Inn Page 18