“Don’t go apologize to Basha, Jawen,” Iibala said, suddenly struck with a bright, crazy idea. “He deserves it for calling us ‘evil, snot-nosed girls’!” She laughed.
“You don’t know he did that!” Sisila cried. “You don’t know if Basha was among those boys yelling at us, Iibala!”
“Chances are he was,” Iibala said, “and besides, how do you know it’s not true?”
“What’s not true?” Sisila asked.
“That Basha is a balnor, like Jawen said he was,” Iibala said.
Jawen gaped at Iibala. What was she up to? Was she trying to prove a point against Sisila, or did she believe Basha deserved to be called a balnor?
“I didn’t even know what it meant,” Jawen said. “My father was talking about Basha like this to a friend,” she said, not wanting to mention the other man’s name aloud. The other man was Baron Augwys, Sisila’s father, and she didn’t want to embarrass Sisila with her father’s actions right now, although Sisila still blushed, like she’d already figured it out. “And my father said, ‘If that balnor boy grows up to be a troublemaker…’”
“Then that’s an excuse!” Iibala seized upon it. “You didn’t know what it meant, but you also didn’t know if it might be true! Basha might be a balnor like your father said he was!” Iibala gasped. “That might explain a lot, actually,” she remarked. “Oaka and Basha don’t look a thing alike. Basha might take after his mother, Habala, more if they were related, but still, they’re not that similar to one another.”
“He can’t be,” Jawen said, shaking her head. “He wasn’t born out of wedlock. He’s got a mother and a father, just the same as the rest of us, and they were married to each other when they had Basha and Oaka, I’m sure of it.”
“But how can you be so sure, Jawen?” Iibala insisted. “You can’t know for sure they were married beforehand. You were born only a couple of months before Basha and Oaka were.”
“Oh, this is a terrible accusation to make.” Jawen rubbed her forehead.
“Jawen! Jawen!” She heard her mother, Mawen, calling for her.
“I’ve got to go,” Jawen said to her friends before running off. She didn’t want to hear any more of their arguing, especially when her head was already full with what she’d just learned. She couldn’t apologize to Basha, not until she was certain it was the right thing to do, and it seemed to depend on whether or not he was a balnor in the first place. If he was indeed a balnor, then she didn’t need to apologize to him at all—or did she? She was so confused right now.
When Mawen fetched Jawen after the rotting dung-fruit and turnip mud-ball fight, having already seen to getting Jawen’s siblings Sencaen, Fence, and Talia cleaned up, Jawen asked her about Basha, if he was the son of both Geda, the innkeeper, and his wife before or after they got married. Then Mawen had told Jawen about Kala’s arrival, the suspicions behind her bloody appearance, and the murdered man found in the snow soon afterward. Mawen even had her own theory that Kala had been Geda’s mistress, and Habala had murdered Kala after baby Basha was born, but Jawen had been unwilling to believe anything like that. Habala wouldn’t have murdered anyone. She was too nice, and not strong enough to do such a thing anyway. And Geda would never have had a mistress, not one like Kala anyway. He was too homely and never would’ve gotten himself mixed up with a stranger.
So where does that leave Basha? she wondered.
Chapter 17
Lost in the Forest
“The boy, he’s lost and alone,
To whom does he turn to in the dark
When nothing is familiar to him anymore?”
—Proverb of Manhood
Geda was scrubbing down tables and Habala was busy wiping off the bar when Basha and Oaka rushed into the Smiling Stallion Inn, both covered in turnip juice and mud. The boys had chased each other round tables, dodged chairs, and skidded across the floor until Oaka bumped into Basha, and they wrestled each other down to the floor. Oaka was still yelling, taunting Basha. “Balnor, balnor!” he chanted.
“That’s enough!” Habala shouted at them, unsuccessfully trying to pull them apart until Geda arrived to help her.
The townspeople of Coe Baba had a problem with handling strange or unusual happenings. Storms and droughts were one thing—those were natural—but when it came to oracles, magic, and strangers who walked into town with a bloody sword was another thing. Someone born and raised in Coe Baba was taught a sense of community, with individualism and independence. A person could be as individual and independent as they wanted to be, so long as they stayed within town limits and community standards, and those standards were held in high regard. Yet by those same standards, any person not born in Coe Baba, despite how many years he or she might have lived there, wasn’t considered a full-fledged citizen. He or she couldn’t vote in town elections and was not eligible to be elected to the town council.
Sir Nickleby, head of the town militia, was born outside of Coe Baba and might be considered an exception as he was on the town council, but he’d been appointed to the spot as head of the town militia, and not elected. Those standards, including the citizenship rule, had been set in stone for a long time, ever since the beginning of the Dark Age, ever since the townspeople of Coe Baba had learned to distrust outsiders who might be Followers of Doomba or blackguards in other ways.
Coe Baba was isolated from most of the country, and the rest of the world, with just a road that went east to Coe Dobila or west to Coe Anji. There was a segment of that road that went farther east, to Coe Ryn, but not many people traveled that far east. In fact, many townspeople didn’t travel outside of Coe Baba or its immediate surroundings. They didn’t like to traverse through Mila Forest, named after the goddess who guarded trees, plants, and nature’s secrets. They’d all heard the stories of bears and wolves, wild men and thieves, and more murderous foes who lurked there. The townspeople didn’t want to risk getting killed out there in the wild.
For those who did leave Coe Baba, such as the merchant Lapo, lumberjacks delivering wood, and members of the town militia that joined the Border Guard, they always came back to Coe Baba eventually as they could never really leave their birthplace forever. Coe Baba was in their blood, and they trusted and loved that place more than anywhere else. The outside world remained a scary place to them even after they’d seen it and experienced its dangers.
“You’re not my brother!” Oaka shouted at Basha.
“I’m so your brother, and I’ll prove it!” Basha cried. He stood up and said, “Mother, one of the other children—”
“A girl!” Oaka shouted.
“A girl called me a balnor,” Basha said, turning toward Oaka to glare at him for a moment. He turned back to their mother. “Mother, it’s not true, is it?”
* * * *
Habala looked down at Basha. She wanted to lie, very much, but she knew she couldn’t. Even if a person was born in Coe Baba to a stranger or newcomer, they still had a slight significant social stigma attached to them, depending on circumstances. Basha had to face such a distinction, even though he’d been unaware of it until now. Technically he could vote and be elected, as a citizen born in Coe Baba, but to some of the other townspeople, he’d never truly be a part of Coe Baba. It left her helpless to answer, or say anything at all as she wished Coe Baba would change in some ways.
“You might as well tell him now,” Geda said, sighing heavily. He stood at the bar, drinking a pint of ale and watching Habala as she gathered her thoughts. She was the best one to explain everything—or as much as she was able to explain—to Basha and Oaka. Geda remembered Kala as the first person to die under his watch at the inn. Two others had died at the inn in the eight years since —a drunkard who’d imbibed too much and an old man who had passed away in his sleep. He was proud of this place, but it disturbed him to no end to have witnessed Kala’s death, not to mention the circumstances of her death, the question of whether or not she’d killed a man in self-defense or murdered him in cold blood. Not to
mention how she knew she was going to die, something he knew bothered Habala as well.
She glared at him, still trying to think of what she should say. That a secret like this had been kept for so long, was testament to the perseverance of Habala and Geda in speaking to the townspeople about not saying anything at all about Kala to Basha, Oaka, or any young children around Basha’s and Oaka’s ages who might share that secret with the boys. And it was a testament to the fact people had listened to them and had decided to respect their wishes and not blab too much about Basha’s heritage. Of course, those circumstances had changed now, but it was a miracle the secret had lasted this long.
“It’s not true, is it?” Basha asked, looks of both hope and despair on his face. As she turned toward him, he seemed to have realized something had gone wrong. Even Oaka was quiet, as if in shock.
“Well…you’re not technically our son,” Habala admitted, “but you are no balnor either; you’re not.”
Basha gasped, Geda groaned, and Habala grimaced. She could have handled that better.
Then Basha started crying as if he’d lost his whole family. “Shh, Basha,” Habala said. She knelt and wrapped her arms tight around him. “I’m sorry, but it’s going to be all right, you’ll see, we’re going to get through this together.”
She told him the truth, at least enough to satisfy him until she was ready to tell him everything she knew, which was still very little.
“Where’d she come from?” Basha asked as Habala told him part of this story.
“I don’t know, but she must’ve come from a long way away, that much was certain. All we know is her name was Kala, but that sort of name isn’t common around these parts. Her horse looked worn down, as did she, from all of the traveling she’d done.”
“But why?”
“Why what?” Habala asked.
“Why did she come all this way?” Basha said.
“I don’t know,” Habala said, looking away from him. “She didn’t say, but…”
Habala wasn’t yet ready to tell him about the oracle or anything about the predictions his mother had made about her death and about him being a boy, which had come true. Yet, she still held that oracles couldn’t be believed.
“Can’t you tell me anything more about my mother or who my father was?” Basha pleaded.
“There’s really not much more to tell you,” Habala said, resting her hands on his shoulders. “Kala wouldn’t even tell me your father’s name, but she assured me she and your father were married.”
“Did she say anything more about my father?”
“No, just that he died.” Habala watched Basha grimly hang his head as tears fell from his eyes, and it tugged at her heart. She pulled him into her arms and held him tight. “You may not have been born to us, Basha, but you’re still our son. You have been since the day you were born, and we love you just as much as we love Oaka.” She drew back and held onto his shoulders, peering down at him until he looked up her. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Basha?”
“Yes,” he said, nodding. “Can I have some apple pie with cream on it?”
Habala had to smile at the teary-eyed hope in his eyes. “Yes, both you and Oaka can have some…that is…” She gave Oaka a stern look. “…if Oaka promises never to call you that awful name again.”
Hopeful, Oaka crossed his heart. “Promise. Never again, Mother. Honest.”
Geda watched the three of them disappear into the kitchen, Habala with an arm around each boy. He felt a bit guilty because truth be told, he didn’t love Basha like Habala did. He cared for the boy, but because of him, they’d never had any more children of their own. That seemed fine with Habala. She didn’t want to take care of a bunch of screaming, howling babies running around the inn, nor did she want to go through another pregnancy and delivery as bad as she had it with Oaka. And frankly, he supposed it was a good thing they’d never had another child. Taking care of the inn and raising two boys, one of which wasn’t even his own, fatigued Geda to no end. He still had nagging doubts about Basha’s future and that of the inn. What sort of future were they all going to have if Lapo expanded his business into inn keeping? What if the boys had to compete with Lapo? And what if Basha couldn’t be supported by whatever remains were left to him when Geda died and the inn passed into Oaka’s hands?
* * * *
Unfortunately, Geda had been born in Coe Baba. There was no advantage to living there—Coe Baba wasn’t the most progressive place—but a man could make a decent living there in hardworking fashion. And he’d done just that. He’d raised a family he could be proud of, while providing everything they needed. So Geda had come to accept his role as husband and father. Yet, he couldn’t help wondering what he might have been if he’d been born in one of the more influential cities. A scholar? A great statesman?
Everybody needed a place where they were loved and supported, and Coe Baba was that for him. He counted himself lucky, he supposed, to have a wife and two boys who loved him very much, plus the inn to support them all. However, he still thought it a big mistake in the larger sense of things to have married and had a family when he did. Still, he wasn’t going to quibble about it. This was his life, and he loved it.
Or so he told himself.
* * * *
Even before he found out he was adopted, Basha had wanted to see the ocean. It was only about seventy miles where the mouth of the River Daneuve met the ocean, but there were no sandy beaches to walk on below the cliffs separating land from water. It made it impossible for people to walk along the shoreline, but even if he couldn’t swim in it or stick his feet in the water, he’d wanted to go there to see the waves crash ashore and smell the salt in the air. So, at the tender young age of eight when he found out he was adopted and that most of Coe Baba thought him a balnor, he decided to run away to see the ocean. His family had been kind and understanding, especially Oaka, who called him my brother and insisted they should try to find some way to get back at Jawen for her name calling, but Basha no longer felt he belonged in Coe Baba. He wanted to go see the ocean and live there on his own.
Although he vividly remembered, with no little amount of fear, the gruelmoff he and Oaka had encountered in the forest, he set off several days after the turnip mudball fight. He sneaked off late in the afternoon to retrieve the backpack he’d stashed just outside of town and had stuffed full of food from the pantry. He wandered about in the forest, trying to find the spot where he’d left his backpack, but the trees looked the same wherever he went. Finally, he had to admit to himself he was lost. Late that night, he fell asleep beneath a tree in a cushion of leaves. He was awakened sometime later by a loud scratching noise. It was still dark, but the full moon was up, with no cloud cover, giving him just enough light to see the giant rats scuttling through the brush toward him. They were as large as he was.
Basha grabbed his walking stick and rose, standing with his back against the tree trunk. He swung the stick around, hoping it would scare off the rats, but they kept advancing. Basha jumped over the tree’s roots, scrambling about in the dark and hoping not to trip over anything as he dodged the rats with them dogging his footsteps.
Basha tripped over his walking stick and fell. Something moved about in the canopy above. Were the rats up there as well? No, there was something else, something larger than the rats, almost human-shaped.
He tried to get up, but the rats swarmed all over him. He tried to scream as their sharp pointy fangs made for his throat. Then something swooped down over him and sprayed a mist over Basha and the rats. Basha coughed and choked but the rats suffered even worse. They curled up, squealing in pain, retching, and twitching. As Basha gasped for air, someone grabbed his hand and swung him free of the cloud.
“Run,” a woman said before she unclipped something from her belt.
Basha’s eyes were tearing up so much all he could see of her was her dark clothing. Something made him wonder… “Mother?”
The woman shook her head. “I’m sor
ry, Basha. I’m not your mother. Now go!” she cried, pushing him away. He ran, stumbling as a blast of warm air struck his back. He was flung forward and landed on the ground, feeling as if he’d broken every bone in his body. He passed out as a fire burned brightly a short distance away.
* * * *
Basha woke up the next morning, still stiff but able to move, though it was painful at times. Smoke carrying the scent of burned hide and fur wafted through the air.
Shaking his head, he stood up, and immediately saw his lost backpack hanging on a branch. The mysterious woman from the night before was nowhere in sight.
Basha shook his head again, trying to clear the cobwebs and a faint headache. Glancing around, he wondered if she was still around. She seemed to have come out of nowhere, but maybe she’d been following him. But that was almost as ridiculous as Old Man fighting a gruelmoff…
Basha shuddered and cleared his throat, glancing around again before he grabbed his backpack and set off, following the river. He ate breakfast and then lunch as he walked, but by supper, the food was all gone.
As night fell, he was hungry and cold. He sat on the ground, rocking back and forth and hoping he’d not fall asleep again. Where there was one rat pack, there was bound to be another.
Suddenly, Basha heard voices. Faint, he strained to make out what they were saying. No, it couldn’t be, but still he called, “Hello!”
“Basha!” the voice called back, and he knew who it was.
“Uncle Smidge!” Basha cried.
“Basha!” Another voice—Geda’s.
“Father!” Basha cried and stood up as Uncle Smidge, Geda, and the rest of the search party walked into the clearing.
By that time, he was exhausted, hungry, thirsty, and a little clammy after sweating all day and night with fear, fever, delirium, and the heat. Apparently he’d not gotten far from town. Geda and the search party found him seven miles into the forest, two nights after he’d vanished from home. It certainly seemed as if he’d traveled much farther than seven miles, though he might have been going around in circles after having lost his sense of direction, probably going south instead of north.
The Smiling Stallion Inn Page 24