Altaica

by Tracy M. Joyce

  ‘Well met, Umniga, but we were not expecting you so soon.’

  ‘Well met, Nada. I need Deo’s help.’

  ‘Come in and wait—they are repairing nets near the boats.’ She bent to the young child, looking seriously into his eyes. ‘Fetch your brother. He can see to Umniga’s wagon and mule.’

  ‘Thank you, but I really must speak with him first.’

  Nada frowned, intrigued. ‘I’ll come with you.’ She met Umniga at the rear of the wagon and slid out the steps for her. Stiffly she sidled down them.

  ‘I’m getting too damn old.’ When Umniga reached the ground, she pushed on her staff as she straightened her spine, twisting from side to side to un-kink her back. With determination, the two women headed off.

  Deo sat with his sons mending nets, while some of their wives worked mending or making new fishing baskets. Others hung rows of fish waiting either for the smokehouse or for pickling. All of them wore wide-legged pants, along with thick-belted woollen tunics, embroidered along the collar, hem and cuffs. Some wore sturdy, mid-length boots in concession to the weather, but others still went barefoot. The women sensibly all had long hair tied back tightly or braided.

  Deo watched the two old women approach from under his bushy grey eyebrows, showing no sign that he knew of their approach. His daughter stopped what she was doing and waved gaily, calling out a greeting to Umniga. With his head remaining bent at his work, he scowled deeply. ‘Bugger it,’ he groused.

  ‘You can’t ignore me, you old grump,’ Umniga chided.

  ‘Umniga,’ was all he said before he turned away from her and hawked a gob of spit on the ground.

  ‘Deo!’ Nada warned.

  ‘Bloody interruptions, woman! I’ve got work to do and no one to help me.’ Snorts of laughter broke out around him. He pursed his lips as he withheld his grin. ‘You!’ he said pointing his aged, coarse brown finger at Umniga. ‘You are not due for a month.’ He gave her a shrewd look. ‘You look exhausted. What’s wrong?’

  ‘We must talk. I need your help.’ He looked at his family, about to send them away. ‘No—they can hear. I require all your help.’ Umniga sat on a pile of nets near him and related the happenings of the last few days.

  Deo frowned. ‘You want to bring them here?’ He looked toward the sea, thinking. ‘No. We’re not sailing that far from land sight. The weather is turning, soon the seas will get rough. I’m not risking my family for some stupid strangers, who may well be dead already. This is pure foolishness!’ The Umniga he knew was practical, not prone to following whims; he wondered if she was becoming addled in the head.

  Umniga was stunned. She quickly tried to regain her equilibrium. ‘Sailing out of land sight will not be a problem. Devi will guide us.’

  ‘They’re strangers, Umniga. Why should we care? Who knows what dangers they bring with them. Who are they?’

  ‘They are no threat to you or Altaica. They are families, women, children.’

  ‘They could bring disease.’

  ‘I saw no signs of disease, just exposure, starvation and lack of water.’

  One of Deo’s grandsons spoke up, eager for a diversion, for a chance of adventure. ‘Grumpa, we could help. Devi and Umniga would not get us lost.’ Umniga smiled at him, but Deo scowled, shaking his head.

  ‘When I think of the odds of my finding them in the first place …’ Umniga sighed. ‘I need two of them in particular. Those two are special. I’m certain I was meant to find them. I’ve never been more certain in my life.’

  Deo reappraised her then. ‘You think the gods have sent them.’

  His eldest son simply said, ‘The weather will hold for a while yet.’

  Nada, who had been listening quietly all this while, added, ‘You must do this. There are children out there. How would you feel if it was our children, or our grand-babies? You must.’

  ‘The clan lords will be coming here. They are in agreement about this.’ At least I hope they are. ‘You can leave early and have a chance of returning with them alive, or wait till the lords get here. They will not give you a choice and will be mightily annoyed if the strangers have died.’ Maybe.

  Looking at the determined set of his wife’s jaw, Deo said, ‘I suppose I’ll get no damn peace and no damn work done unless I bloody well go. Fine!’

  * * *

  Under a cloudless sky, with the light of a full moon, they set sail. Devi and Umniga guided a dozen fishing boats. They’d stacked water skins and barrels, along with simple foodstuffs in the boats. Deo, ever cautious, wanted as many boats and men as were willing to come. It took longer than Umniga had wanted to organise extra boats, but she relented when Deo had said, ‘I have not lived this long by being a fool. If you want my help, then I’m in charge on the water.’ This way, he’d reasoned, they had spare crew to sail the strangers back on their boat, or use the fishing boats. He had finished by saying smugly, ‘Since you know nothin’ of the sea, I forgive you.’ She could have smacked him in the face then and there.

  Umniga was anxious and impatient, a state not helped by the fact that Deo was still being conceited, and her palms remained itchy with the desire to hit him. Who knew what condition the strangers would be in by now. Delays! Everything had seemed to take too long to organise and now the journey seemed interminable. She prayed to Jalal, for this was his domain, that she and Devi would find the barge again. She knew Devi would remember where it had been, but the likelihood that it was still there was slim. She just hoped that the others did not decide to return if it took longer to find the strangers than they had anticipated.

  Devi landed on the prow near her. ‘He has found them!’

  The relief in her voice caused Deo to look at her sharply. ‘How far have they moved since the last time you saw them?’

  Umniga fell silent, staring at Devi. ‘If anything they are a bit closer. Same direction, just closer.’

  Deo grunted, nodding. ‘Likely the current would have brought them to us anyway. Maybe this way we won’t be too late.’

  * * *

  Nicanor stared, bleary eyed, at the steady rain; he thought he was hallucinating. The loud, yet hollow sputtering on the awning and the staccato taps on the decking were the most wonderful sounds he had ever heard. He looked around, his family was awake. He grinned at Curro, uncaring as his cracked lips split further. Pio lay on his back, his arms spread out and his mouth open, as his weak little body delighted in the moisture. A few people were sitting, too ill to move much, but Nicanor knew they must be feeling as relieved as he was.

  When the rain ceased, there was no frantic rush for the water containers. He eased himself to a sitting position and reached for the small container nearest him. He took a swig, savouring it, feeling its soothing flow all the way down his throat. He took another, closing his eyes in appreciation and thanks. Had he been able to cry, he was certain he would have.

  Nicanor urged Lucia to sit up a little. Holding the container, he encouraged her to drink.

  She smiled feebly, taking two precious gulps. ‘Pio?’

  Nicanor crawled to their son. Pio rolled to his side as Nicanor approached, a beauteous smile on his face.

  He took the container and enjoyed several swigs. ‘I never thought water could taste so yum,’ he croaked.

  Nicanor heard Curro saying, ‘Careful, not too much.’ He was glad he could not hear Elena’s cranky reply. He could see a few others drinking, but several had not moved. His gaze returned to Lucia and Pio. ‘Go on, have another mouthful.’

  ‘Isa needs some too,’ Pio said. Nicanor, feeling guilty, looked at Curro. They both knew Isaura had not stirred in days. Together the three of them crawled the short distance to her. They tried to rouse her, but still she would not wake.

  ‘Pio, there’s no change.’

  ‘But she must drink!’

  ‘Pio,’ he gently said, ‘she’s not waking up.’ Pio glared at him, hearing the fatality in his voice, but unable to accept it. ‘She’s not waking up to drink, that’s all,�
� Nicanor said, trying to mollify him.

  Pio managed to raise Isaura’s head onto his lap. He took the container from his father and tried to open her mouth and pour water down her throat. Still she did not wake. He tried again, beginning to rock over her, quietly repeating, ‘Isa, Isa … Isa.’ The water would not go down her throat. It was running out the side of her mouth onto the deck.

  Nicanor felt helpless. He took the cup from his son’s hands and wrapped his arms around him to stop his rocking.

  ‘Enough, Pio. It’s not working. Enough.’

  Elena’s hoarse whisper was clear. ‘Stop wasting the water.’ Curro and Nicanor both stiffened.

  Curro looked both angry and apologetic. ‘She’s not herself.’

  Nicanor grunted, livid with Elena, but unwilling to make his brother feel worse.

  ‘Pio,’ Curro said, ‘if you spill it now, when she isn’t awake, you will have nothing to give her when she does wake up.’ He placed his hand on Pio’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze before he returned to Elena, to whom he said nothing.

  Nicanor and Pio tenderly placed Isaura as she was before. He urged Pio to return to his pallet, but he refused. Instead he lay next to Isaura and took her hand. His mouth and hands were still too dry and sore to play for her, so he recommenced whispering stories to her—stories of home, some old fireside tales, myths, tales of their adventures together hunting or fishing. When his repertoire ran out, he invented new stories. When, in his exhaustion, his voice dwindled altogether, he said the stories in his head and he fell asleep dreaming them. All the while, he would hold her hand. Sometimes he woke, with a sense of urgency, next to his parents, only to move back to Isaura again.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  WHAT? I’M FLOATING. Isaura panicked as she looked at the top of the mast. Instinctively she reached out to grab it. No hand. Where’s my body? You’re dreaming, idiot! She looked for her form, seeing only a slight haze in the air. Fervently hoping that she could control this dream, she concentrated on her appearance; as she did so her form became more substantial. Finally she looked as she should, albeit faded. She reached out to the mast, but her hand passed through it. Dread settled upon her. Wake up. She waited. She did not wake up. Don’t look down. She looked down.

  Below her lay her friends, surrounding her body. Stricken she looked away. ‘It’s only a dream, just a dream’, became her mantra, broken only by silent pleas to awaken. Her face contorted in fear and grief as she steadfastly tried to look anywhere other than at the scene below her. She couldn’t do it, she had to know. Her eyes were drawn inextricably downward. Concentrating, she put all her will into reaching them. Nothing happened. Damn it! She tried again to no avail. Everything around her seemed to blur, then coalesced, disconcerting and disorientating her. Suddenly, she was beside her body, staring at it.

  She battled a rising wave of hysteria. So this is death? Really? What were you expecting, Isa? Gods, now I’m talking to myself. She tore her gaze away from her body to stare at the ocean in an attempt to regain self-control. The last thing Isaura could remember was seeing the old woman and the owl. They had seemed one and the same. Oh good, I must have gone nuts before I died. She finally quashed frenzy building inside her. Well, this isn’t paradise and it can’t be the Underworld since Hugo’s not here. Am I caught between, waiting to be reborn?

  It was said some people’s spirits, at the whims of the gods, remained between worlds, waiting to be reborn as they had not led sufficiently virtuous lives in this life, so must try again in the next. Lack of virtue—no denying that, she thought bitterly. Others believed that these spirits belonged to particularly strong-willed individuals, and their rebirth was an act of defiance against the gods. I should have paid more attention to all that religious twaddle.

  Isaura looked at Pio. He’s alive! What about the others? She tried to move again. Nothing. She puzzled over how she had made herself move. What did she do differently the second time? I was angry. Was it due to the single-mindedness that came with anger?

  Focusing solely on where she wanted to be, she managed to move. This time, she realised that it was not the world around her reforming, but that she coalesced at her destination. Isaura examined the boat’s other occupants; they were in worse shape than her friends. None of them will last long. Damn it! Even the Underworld would have been better than seeing this. She had done her best, but it was not enough. Despondently she thought, They’ll die anyway. We’ve changed nothing, just prolonged it.

  Glancing back along the deck, she noticed a fine violet thread following the path she had taken and ending at her physical form. Without thinking, she effortlessly followed it, returning to her body. Isaura realised her friends, clustered around her, had formed a protective barrier; shielding her from the others. Gazing at them and the protective solidarity they offered, she felt the weight of her failure with profound sadness. I can’t do this. I can’t watch. I can’t stay here. She focused on the top of the mast, and materialised beside it, feeling rather proud of herself.

  The unhelpful view before her, in any direction, was of a vast grey ocean.

  Her attention was caught by the same violet shimmer over the water that she had noticed on the deck. It’s the way I’ve travelled—the way home. Drawn to it, she travelled the line with ease. Pausing, she turned toward the boat, which was now only a dot on the horizon. Forgive me. Running from her grief, she chose to embrace this new existence. She could return home. You’ve spent all your time trying to leave, now you’re running back? Yet it had to be better than this. Perhaps her mother’s spirit lingered too? What would she think? She grimaced. Don’t dwell, girl. Just go.

  Isaura concentrated on the furthest point that she could see of the thread and ‘jumped’ to it. At least she thought she had moved. The grey ocean offered no points of reference once she had lost sight of the boat.

  An urge to explore pulled at her. The sun was setting over the ocean, firing the horizon with brilliant pinks and oranges, which then transformed into mauve and dusky purple. The colours disappeared higher into the sky as the ocean swallowed the sun. Mesmerised, she wanted to see more. Follow the sun. Why not? The pull at her consciousness, a delicious enticement that beckoned to her, called her to explore. Wavering, she heard music, a flute. It reminded her of Pio’s clumsy playing. The pull upon her eased; its tendrils slowly released her. Home. Go home.

  Looking for the violet shimmer of the thread, she realised with horror that she had already wandered from it. She had lost the line. Panicking, she spun around frantically searching for it. She managed to stop herself before she strayed further. Calm down. With no reference point she could overshoot it. It hasn’t gone. Think!

  The music lingered; concentrating on it calmed her. Dusk is the hardest time to see. In the purple light of early evening, just before the grey of night descended, she obeyed a compulsion to be still and thought about home. The purple deepened, then vanished as night encroached. The moon began to illuminate the sea. Isaura looked again and in the light of the moon and in the darkness, she found it. It glowed, and in doing so seemed more substantial than before.

  * * *

  Isaura paused, gazing at the estuary then along the coast. I could go to Matyran like we’d planned. No invasion, no Zaragaria. See something new … She stilled. She needed to know if they’d made the right choice. Could they have stayed? Her gut told her no, but still she needed to see what had happened to the village and to those they left behind. What had happened to her home? I’ve all the time in the world to explore later. Home first, she decided, never once looking back to notice that her trail was fading.

  The fens, a maze of reeds and water glistening in the sun, lay below her. Tree-covered islands dotted its expanse. Thin sporadic wisps of smoke were the only indicator that people lived there. There was no destruction here. She doubted the Zaragaria would ever bother with the fens and that its inhabitants would not bother with the Zaragaria. The people who lived there were markedly different from the rest of
the people of Arunabejar. They had more in common with the hill clans of Matyran, both being darker in skin and hair. Though they both spoke the common tongue, they had similar local dialects quite distinct from those around them. They both distrusted strangers and lived in near isolation. The villagers would have had no help from them.

  As she approached Arunal, the outlying farmsteads and homes were in ashes. However, the riverside city was not filled with chaotic, panicking citizens. Screams did not pierce the air. The fires were out. The outer fortifications were in ruins at one point, although work had commenced on repairing them and the main gates. The city appeared remarkably normal, calm and ordered. The market was bustling with people all going about their business as if nothing had happened. She could see the darkly armoured Zaragarian officers wandering the stalls, smiling and inspecting the goods.

  The wharf quarter of the city was also a hive of activity. The pier was being rebuilt on a grander scale than before. Organisation and control had been imposed by the Zaragaria. The harsh, abrasive sound of Zaragarian commands, abuse and the lash of enforcement randomly carried to her ears. At least they’re alive. Even this would have been better than slow death on the boat.

  Some distance from the city and the river, she noticed a freshly dug field. Filled with a sense of dread, yet compelled by it, she left the river to investigate. It was not entirely cultivated. The soil had been dug only in many long, wide rows. Clumps of white powder dotted the ground near the rows. At the head and foot of each row stood a stone marker, engraved with the image of a mountain beside a river: an ancient symbol of Majula and Araceli. The powder was lime. Graves. Isaura gazed at the rows in despair. How many are here? Soldiers? Ordinary folk? Would we have ended up here? Maybe we could have hidden, just like Hugo said …

  She returned to the river and headed home.

  * * *

  The soldiers had camped in the village. The earth still bore the taint of their presence. It was obvious where the horses had been kept, where trees had been felled for fuel and where those trees had provided many campfires. The houses were still standing, although they had been ransacked.