by Dana Marton
The medicine could infuse in cold water, but it would infuse faster with some heat.
Graho lifted his black shirt, and, even in the dim light, I could see the odd-shaped tattoos crisscrossing his skin. Owner’s marks? I’d heard they were used by some slave masters. I looked away. Maybe he had been a slave before he became a master. Some continued the trade they knew the best, after they were freed.
I knew the slave trade was so, but I could not understand why. He knew what the whip felt like. How could he do it to others? How could he have these children harmed so he could sell them to the beggar lords on the mainland?
My jaw clenched. I fervently prayed for our arrival at the port, but I dreaded it too. On the ship, the tiger and the children were still safe, still near me. What could I do to save them once our journey ended?
I set that despair aside and turned my attention to helping them in the present moment. I could not feed them; I could not bathe them; I could not give them back to their mothers. But maybe I could take away their fear, even if for a short while.
“Have you ever heard the tale of the wise beggar and the foolish prince?”
They all snuggled closer, little faces turned up, listening.
“In a faraway kingdom were once two brothers. When their father died, he left them all his wealth and all his houses, and all his vineyards and fields, but one brother soon stole the other’s inheritance by treachery. So that the betrayal could never be avenged, he had his hired swords cut out his brother’s eyes. Then he used his brother’s wealth as a gift to court the king’s daughter. In good time, he married her and became a prince, while his blind brother became a beggar.
“Soon, hard times came to the kingdom,” I said.
“War?” one of the little boys asked.
“War,” I told him. “While the treacherous brother, the new prince, moved into the palace, the beggar brother went from town to town. The good people fed him; the bad people beat him. As he journeyed through the land, he met many men, lords and lowly shopkeeps, craftsmen and servants, and got to know their hearts.
“If he got two heels of bread in one day, he gave away one to someone who was hungry. If he passed an old woman whose donkey couldn’t pull her cart, he helped. Because he could not see, his other senses grew sharper until he could hear as well as an owl.
“Once he came to a village where the people were in great sorrow, for they had lost a child. But as the beggar listened, he could hear the child call weakly from the bottom of a narrow well.
“Nobody could go down to help the little girl, but since the beggar was always walking and rarely eating, he was lean indeed. Even though he could not see, he told the people to tie a rope around him and lower him. And he saved that little girl.”
The girls all seemed very happy with that outcome, but one of the boys put in, “What happened to the prince?”
“The prince lived lavishly, ate stuffed pigs, drank wine, and gobbled up cake.” I made a gobbling sound.
Some of the children smiled for the first time.
But the oldest of the boys frowned. “There is no cake in war,” he said with great certainty.
I supposed none of them had seen much food in a very long while. Certainly not in the slave pens, and definitely not here on the ship.
I went on with my story. “His people saw the prince day after day, eating and drinking while they fought and starved, and the people began to hate him.”
The children nodded.
“Even the king despaired. He was old and sick. He hoped the prince would lead his army, but the prince refused to leave the palace. He did not become prince to be killed on a battlefield, he said. He did not become prince to starve. So he stayed home and feasted while the country and its people fell into despair.
“Even the king’s best friends began to betray him, knowing that soon his kingdom would fall. The palace was full of spies. Some men tried to poison him. The king fell into such dark sadness that he walked out of the palace, down to the edge of the water, and he fell onto his knees to beg the spirits.
“‘This man I chose for my daughter, this man I chose to be my son,’ he cried. ‘I did not choose wisely. Oh merciful spirits, send me a hero to save my country. I do not know who to trust. I have not been a good king. But for my folly, do not let my people perish. Send me a man who is worthy, and I shall give my whole kingdom to him.’”
I had to raise my voice to continue as the storm grew louder around us. We all clung together so we would not be tossed around the cabin.
“The blind beggar walked by just then,” I said, “and heard the king cry about not knowing his people and not knowing who to trust. At once, the beggar strode up to the king and fell onto his knees in front of him.
“‘Your majesty,’ he said. ‘If it pleases your grace, I can tell you who the good men are and who are the ones you can trust.’ And then he told the king about how he had lived year after year, what lords had been kind to him, what lords had tried to force him into slavery. Many people do not even see a beggar. He had heard much that he had not been meant to hear. He knew what lords were thieves, what lords were cheaters, what lords talked treason.”
“Did he tell the king that he was the prince’s brother? Did he tell the king that his brother was a rotten egg?” the littlest girl asked.
“No,” I told her. “Even after all those years of suffering, the beggar did not want his brother to come to harm.”
“What happened next?” One of the older boys spoke up, impatient with the interruption.
“The king invited the beggar into his chambers. That night, the king himself wrote letters, all night, for he could not even trust his scribes. And in the morning, all those letters were sent to his trusted lords with the last of the king’s trusted soldiers. And those trusted lords hastened to the king’s side. And do you know who was invited along with the lords to the war council?”
“The blind beggar!” a couple of the children shouted.
I nodded. “The blind beggar was a wise man indeed. Once, he had managed his father’s vast holdings. When he gave advice, the lords saw his wisdom and accepted it. They could see that he was a man blessed by the spirits in some regard, even while cursed in another.”
“Did they defeat the enemy?” Another little boy piped up with the question.
“Indeed they did, and after the war, the king had his people gather in front of the palace. He took the prince and the beggar with him to the palace balcony that overlooked the crowd.
“First, he addressed the lords who waited in the front row, sitting on their prancing horses. ‘I have grown old,’ he told them. ‘I ask you to choose a new king. Who do you choose to rule this country, the beggar or the prince?’
“‘The beggar!’ the lords shouted. They remembered that he was the one who vouched for them with the king. They remembered his wise advice at the war council. They remembered how the prince cowered, caring only about his own comfort and safety. Better a king without eyes than a king without wisdom and courage, they murmured amongst themselves, and shouted again, ‘Let the beggar be king!’
“Next, the king turned to his people. ‘I have grown old and sick. If a new enemy comes, I fear I might not be able to protect you. Who do you choose for your new king? The beggar or the prince?’
“‘The beggar!’ the people shouted. They all remembered the beggar walking among them, helping when he could, sharing what little he had with those less fortunate. They remembered his stories that gave them hope, and they remembered his kindness. They remembered the child he saved from the well. ‘Better a king without eyes than a king without a heart,’ they murmured to each other, and shouted again, ‘We choose the beggar!’
“The blind beggar was crowned the next day. But when he sent for his brother so his brother could sit by his side at the feast, the prince and the princess could not be found. They had run away in the night.”
The children pressed even closer, smiles on nearly every face. Whether be
cause they had not heard a tale in a long time or because they liked the idea of a maimed beggar becoming a king, I did not know.
The two youngest ones were sleeping, half curled up on my lap. I was glad for their peace.
The merchant’s blue eyes looked black in the dim cabin. I did not like the way he watched me. I had been sold into slavery before, and selling people was his business. Maybe he was already calculating how much coin he could earn for a healer.
I gently set the sleeping children aside and struggled to my feet. “If any of them start heaving, let them drink the medicine,” I said, then half lurched, half crawled back toward my cabin.
But instead of going in, I visited the tiger. Her eyes were glazed, her great side caved in. She had sores and open wounds on her skin. I suspected that the men poked and tortured her when the captain wasn’t looking. She was but fur. Even if the pirates decided to slaughter her now, there would be nothing to eat.
I sang her my spirit song to comfort her. She pushed a great paw out between two bars, but not to swipe at me. She left her listless paw lying next to my hand. I reached out carefully to stroke her. The tiger closed her eyes.
Dizzy with hunger, so did I.
I stayed there, stroking her matted fur and singing to her, as much as to comfort her as because I had no strength to move. Then Batumar came down below, lifted me up, and carried me to our cabin.
Chapter Ten
(The Red Tower)
By the time the hardstorms spit us out, we had lost most of our sails, and the ship was taking on water. We barely had any rigging left. The only reason we drifted toward land was because the currents pushed us that way.
“How long before we reach port?” Batumar asked One-Tooth Tum.
“Two more days.” The captain watched me. “We have nayver made it out of the storms with this little damage afore.”
I sensed he suspected that I had called the fish, and now he was uncertain how far my powers reached. Not far enough to feed us again.
We were all on board, enjoying the fresh air, dazed and starved. We could see fish in the water, but we did not have as much as half a rat’s tail for bait.
Two more days, I thought, and then we’ll have survived the belly of the mountain, the hardstorms, and the pirates. I had never wanted anything half as much as I wanted to feel the paved streets of Ishaf under my feet.
One-Tooth Tum looked at me, then addressed his question to Batumar. “Have ye been to Ishaf of late?”
Batumar shook his head.
“Avoid ye the red tower,” the pirate captain advised.
“What’s in the red tower?”
“A sorcerer. The city fathers called him to the city to protect it. But he exacts a terrible price.” The captain pinned me with a sharp look. “What ye have, he would take.”
“Take how?” Batumar demanded.
The captain shrugged. “He leaves people empty.”
Then the captain looked over my head at some of his men and moved off. His shoulders seemed stiff, his stride maybe a little too measured.
I glanced at Batumar. He was now watching Grun, the captain’s second in command, who was standing in a circle of the most disgruntled pirates. The captain was looking out to sea, but I caught him checking the men now and then from the corner of his eye.
Casting insolent looks toward the captain, the men climbed down into the belly of the ship one by one. Tension took their place on deck, anticipation of something dark coming our way. Suddenly we were waiting for what would happen next, as we had waited for the hardstorms, the air filling with premonitions.
Batumar pulled me to the prow and put himself in front of me, keeping his hand close to his sword. Graho, the merchant, gathered the children around him in the most out-of-the-way spot he could find, behind a pile of empty water barrels that had been brought up again in hopes of rain.
Other pirates who’d been working until now sensed the unease and began positioning themselves in groups of twos and threes, no weapons in hands yet, but alert and ready.
I thought the men who had gone below might return with the captain’s treasure, claiming it for themselves, but instead, when they appeared, they were dragging the tiger cage up to the deck, grunting and cursing.
The tiger kept shifting but did not fight them. Maybe she thought that being out under the sky again meant her freedom was near.
Then, with one more heave, the cage was up on deck at last. The tiger suddenly looked to the east, and her tail and whiskers twitched as if she could smell the forests from here. Maybe she was saving her energy for an attempt to escape once the pirates docked the ship.
But swords scraped against scabbards as the men drew their weapons, ready to stab the emaciated animal through the bars, jeering and shouting now to work up the courage.
Sensing the danger, the tiger rose to her haunches and roared, swiping through the bars, but she could not defend herself from every direction at once.
“Leave it!” the captain shouted as he pulled his own sword and rushed the mutinous pirates.
Metal clashed against metal in an instant. Men fell to his left and right, wounded. As the last of his faithful men hurried to back him up, he charged his first mate with a ferocious blow.
Grun’s skull cracked, his spirit departing.
The captain and his faithful men growled and snapped at the rest of Grun’s crew. But after trading insults, the two groups pulled back from each other.
“The tiger is worth gold,” the captain shouted, and kicked the dead man hard enough so that Grun slid the width of a plank or two in his own blood. “He’s worth nothin’. Ye eat him, ye bastards.” He strode away, his chest heaving, his shoulders shaking with fury.
The men moved in around the body, their faces dark, emotionless masks.
My stomach clenched. I watched as the merchant herded the children down below. Batumar and I followed.
I glanced back at the tiger, which did not seem aware that a battle had been fought over her. She had her eyes on me.
Batumar kept as close to me as possible, even on the stairs. “She is safe enough now,” he said. “What the men eat today will carry them through until we reach port.”
I moved forward in the hope that he would be proven right, and that the captain would protect the tiger again should the animal face danger.
We closed the door to our cabin behind us, but soon the smell of roasting meat reached us anyhow—sweet and somehow foul at the same time, all wrong, turning my stomach more than the storms ever had.
We huddled on the floor in the corner, Batumar’s arms around me. His great body seemed to me as a bulwark against the world, and I leaned against him, wishing now even more that we were finally off the ship.
Silence ruled belowdecks. In it, I heard crying.
I pulled away from Batumar. “I shall go and tell the children a story.”
He frowned. I could see no forming on his lips.
“The merchant will not hurt me,” I hurried to say. “He has no reason.”
“There is danger in the air still,” Batumar said carefully. “I do not like it.”
“We will reach land the day after tomorrow.”
“Until then, we shall stay in here.”
He had not taken his sword belt off as was his habit whenever we were inside our cabin, but he had left his weapon hanging at his side.
In the end, I did talk him into letting me go. But he came with me.
Graho, the nine children, and I filled most of the room. Batumar’s large frame took up the rest of the space as he stood inside the door, his feet braced. I could not tell if he was guarding me from the merchant or from the pirates.
The children gathered closely around me, unsure of what to make of the giant warrior suddenly in their midst.
I started into a story I learned from my mother.
“At the foot of the Mountain of No Top, where it meets Bottomless Lake…” My mother always began the story in a hushed voice as if telling me
a secret never told before, and I spoke the same way. “Lived a beautiful young girl called Lawana.”
“One day, a man came from far away to ask for her hand in marriage. Lawana folded up her clothes and veils and all that was most important to her and left her father’s house to go to him. When she was halfway, she turned back. She did not want to leave her family. Then she turned to the man. She truly wanted to go with him. She turned back and forth faster and faster, unable to make up her mind, until she spun so fast she drilled a large hole in the ground.
“The hole, deep and wide, drank Bottomless Lake and swallowed Mountain of No Top. An endless swamp took their place, and to this day, it is called Lawana’s Swamp.”
“What happened to Lawana and her parents and the man?” I would ask my mother each time she reached this far in the story.
“The swamp swallowed them,” my mother would say, her voice deep and grave.
She used to tell me many such tales, sometimes even about the Forgotten City of the Guardians, but mostly about young girls and all the hardships they faced and what happened after the choices they made. I liked that, the gentle way she taught me.
I finished the story for the children. They nodded with understanding. They were not troubled overmuch by Lawana’s untimely demise. Children’s tales were meant to teach, so they rarely had happy endings. Most were tales of warning.
I tried to pick one next that spoke of happier times, and told the children about the merchant and the beggar boy, then the story of the faithful wife, and ended with the Guardians and the Forgotten City.
“Do you know the Guardians, mistress?” the littlest of the girls asked. Nala, I had heard the others call her.
I smiled at her. “I do, Nala. I have been to the Forgotten City.”
Their sparkling blue eyes could not have grown larger.
So I talked to them about the Forum and the Seer and the Gate, the Sacred Cave. They listened with rapt attention until no more light came in through the porthole.
Then Batumar and I went back to our cabin.