by Justin Kauer
Chapter One – Memories
Having a pure source of power can make all of the difference in the lives of those who are downtrodden, forgotten, rejected, and ridiculed. However, clinging to that power can prove to be a difficult task, indeed.
It was a night that seemed to be lit up with the purest of magic, as the campfire roared. The radiance of the early autumn sunset had faded into darkness, and family old and young, all gathered round to share in the warmth of the fire and bask in the glow of the stories that were being told. While the night had grown darker, the stories grew more and more delightful, details of hunts and battles became greater and more and more embellished, much to the laughter of all who were listening. Eyes and hearts seemed to glow in the dark as blankets were passed out and cuddling commenced, while the stories continued. Lost ones of the family were remembered with both tears of sorrow at remembering the loss and tears of joy for their having passed to the next life, gratitude was expressed for the blessings which those loved ones were in the lives of each family member, plans were made for future ventures. Young ones’ eyes grew wide from tales of danger and peril. Old ones’ eyes shone more fondly as they watched the delight in their young ones’ faces. Love was woven tightly around them all.
The old king looked around the fire at his family and friends.
“Are there any questions about the story up to this point?” he asked the audience.
“What was in the hole?!” they all seemed to demand at once.
The king, visibly shocked at the inquisition, slowly returned, “I am getting to that . . . I may get to that! I haven’t decided exactly how to explain that part. I only told it because . . . well, I wanted you to see the way that Joan and Alban had hit things off . . . at first. We shall see. I may leave it for another night’s telling. Anyway, where was I?”
“Alban . . . or whatever his name was . . . had just left Joan heartbroken in the desert!” the queen reminded him.
“Ah! Yes!” the king began. “Joan sat by the fire . . . and . . . stared deeply into the flames, much like we are doing now.”
Most, if not all, turned and looked at the flames of their bonfire, and the characters began to dance anew in the night air. Chills went up and down the spines of the listeners around the fire, as they knew that the tale would not disappoint.
“My lady, let us wake everyone up that we may . . . or those able to do so, anyway. We must be quit of this infernal desert and get you back home! We are ever so short on water.” Garrve distracted most horribly, because his face showed a deep sympathy for Joan; said sympathy only made her miss her love all the more.
Joan’s stomach growled and reminded her of the stew that was being heated over the fire. She ran to make sure that it was not burned. Luckily, she reached it before it was completely ruined, though the bottom portion of the stew was burnt. She thought it quite fitting.
“Rouse the men that are left, and I will start serving them. They will have a big appetite. I hope so, anyway, or this stew will go to waste.” Joan stated, glad that she had figured out a way that she should not have to go and see who had lived and who did not.
Not that Garrve really liked the idea, but to him, they were either dead bodies or live ones. There was no friend or foe factor (that he could remember) to the search. So, while it was obviously an unpleasant task for anyone, he had less at stake in the results. Besides, he figured that such a task was really beneath a royal maiden. He set out to find and wake any and all men that could be woken. Soon there were two men, then five. Five turned to twelve, twelve to seventeen, and seventeen to forty-five as the men would come and eat, and then begin helping in the salvage of lives. At length, there were one hundred sixty-two men and four of their wives that had come along with the slaver men that had lived.
They decided not to count the bodies of the dead, but they figured that the count was exactly thirty-six, because one of the men had already counted as they went. It was a grim picture indeed. Garrve noticed that the men were dressed differently. Some had on the same green tunics that he wore, while the others were dressed mostly in white or tan clothing. So, after he conferred with Joan on the matter and had her translate, he asked two men that were not dressed in green to look at the dead that were dressed like them, so that if their memories were to return, they should know those whom they had lost. He did likewise and had another man along with him to look closely at those dressed in the green uniforms of his people. That was the best that they could do, he figured, to be able to advise loved ones of their losses, a task to which he did not look forward, but one that would have to be done.
When all that could be found were counted among the living or dead, they looked around for fuel for the funeral fire. You see, the bodies could not be merely buried out in the desert sands. It would be too easy for the predators and scavengers to dig them up, as there were no stones to be found for miles that could be used to cover the bodies and, indeed, keep the beasts out of the cadavers. Some species needed only to get a taste of the flesh of man, and that would be the only thing that they would eat from then on. Such beasts had made travel nearly impossible through that desert some years back, and there was no need to start that up again. So, the bodies would definitely have to be burned.
They found a “grove” of bonfire bushes. Most were dried up and dead, but there were a few that were still green. It was believed that there was an underground river that flowed through the desert, and if a bush or tree could get their roots down near to that, it could survive for years. It was also believed that it fluctuated in flow during the year, which may have accounted for the varied dried-up and green bushes.
“Get these dry bushes first! We can put them on the bottom, stack the bodies on them, and then the green bushes can go on top.” Garrve said.
“Won’t the green ones put the fire out?” asked one of the slavers.
“No. Actually, the live ones, when heated ooze out their natural oils which burn very hot after they finally heat up enough to catch fire. The trick is to place them such that the oils heat up enough.” was Garrve’s answer.
“How do you know?” the slaver asked.
“How do you know that it does not?” Garrve turned the tables.
“Uhhh . . .”
“Exactly!” returned Garrve. “Our memories may come back to us when we are through with this task and have gone back through the field containing the misery’s sorrow. So, we should get on it.”
When the bushes were stacked, and the bodies, etc. the fire was lit. At first, the slaver was mocking the newly appointed king, but as the flames grew higher, the oils began to flow, just like Garrve had said. They leaked down onto the bodies which soon began to burn as well. Soon the fire grew too hot to stand nearby it, so they all began to dig the wagons out of the sand and ready them for their journey. They found out that there is a reason that the bushes were called bonfire bushes, for a loud pop was heard, and a ball of flame shot up from the center of the blaze, sending a flaming missile out from the pile. Soon a couple of bushes that were a stone’s throw away burst into flame.
“I . . . think that we should first move the wagons that are closest to the fire.” Garrve stated casually.
“That may be the only thing that any man has said today with which I can totally agree!” said Joan derisively.
“My lady . . .” began Garrve in rebuttal.
“I know. I agreed before to all that Alban (or whatever his name was) had said, but that was before the pain had set in. If he were here now, I would tell him a thing or two, you can be sure of that!”
Garrve began to laugh, “Lady Joan, you knew it then and you know just as well now. A man like that, when he feels duty bound and bound by his duty, will not be swayed from doing what he deems to be right — no, not in the least! You might as well try growing crops here in the desert sand!”
“I thank the newly appointed king (and temporarily, at that) for his kind wo
rds of inspiration! Why, if all men were as gracious as you, there should never be cause for wars and starvation. All of the ills of this world would be solved in a day! Long live King Gravy!”
A few of the men began to cheer, “Long live King Gravy, long live King Gra . . .” but soon realized that no one else was cheering, so they trailed off and stopped.
“My Lady, perhaps you are angry at the current situation and not with me. Maybe you should like to reconsider such tactics when speaking to the new King of Caven . . . something. Galandetra’s whistle! What was the name of my country? Oh well, we may remember soon enough. I think that we should both try to contain ourselves until such time that we are clear of our current situation. Agreed?”
“Agreed!” Joan growled back.
Garrve looked at her in amazement. He began to wonder into what sort of trap he had gotten himself . . . well, trapped. He looked at Joan in curiosity. She, in turn, glared right back. The thing that made him wonder most, was the fact that he was doing her a great favor in taking her to . . . wherever she lived (That had begun to worry him a great deal, as neither did he know where it was that he was taking her, nor how far it may be from where they were.) and yet, she seemed hostile towards him.
“No good deed goes unpunished, my lady?” he asked, wincing more with every syllable in anticipation of the sting of the impending assault of insults.
“I do apologize!” Joan began, but paused, at which Garrve began to feel put at ease. She continued, though, “However, I do not wish to go home! I only go now that I am bound by honor and my word. Be assured that I do not go willingly. That makes it extremely difficult to go easily; I will go, but it will not be pleasant!”
“I do understand. It is a hard thing to have your heart broken in such a kindly way. He did not even leave you with cause to hate him but did it lovingly. Sometimes it is easier when one can simply replace the strong love that is lost with an equally intense hatred. It seems to fill up the void that was left behind.”
“He didn’t even kiss me goodbye!” Joan moaned softly.
“Lady Joan!” began the king.
Joan expected him to scold her for the fact that she had still wanted to kiss a man, though she was betrothed to another, even though she had never agreed to the marriage. She braced herself for the tongue lashing that she would receive, accompanied by some sort of insult usually given to wanton women. She was still shockingly surprised by the scolding that came.
“Women of your stature should not stoop to using contractions in your speech! What if your father could hear you?” Garrve joked.
Joan saw nothing funny in it at all. Her eyes welled up with tears, and she darted into Ryan’s carriage.
“You told her!” said one of the men who had earlier cheered for King Gravy.
“Shut it!” yelled the saucy king. “Get to work! We need to get out of here and on with our journey, however long that may be.”
“Yes, my lord!” came the quick answer.
Garrve soon had them digging everything out with buckets and feed scoops. He decided to leave Joan to the mending of her heart, as he had taken all of her disdain that he should want for a good, long while, especially after having dealt with death all day. They toiled in the hot sun for about two and a half hours and had freed all of the wagons but one. Again, so as not to disturb her, they simply dug around Ryan’s carriage as gingerly as they could. At length, they had to dig around the other side of the carriage. As they cleared the sand away from the wheels and then the side of the wagon, they found three shovels that were tied onto a rack. Garrve could only stare at them. Believe me, there were various words that came to his mind, but now being a king and feeling a need to set a good example, he durst not say them aloud.
“It would have been nice to have known about these shovels before we dug up all of those other wagons!” he finally managed to say — without vulgarity.
Joan began to laugh hysterically. Garrve looked around at all of the other men. There was nothing remotely intelligent written on their faces, so he turned his eyes heavenward and sighed a great vocal sigh. It was going to be a long journey; that was sure. He decided that he was not even going to ask Joan to get out of the wagon. If he were to be king, even if it were on a temporary basis, then he would definitely need something that resembled order among the ranks. A woman that was going around challenging his every decision could only make it harder to get things accomplished as they journeyed along, and that was true for all, even those of royal blood. Still, he did not wish to make things hard on the woman. Especially since he understood that she had been through a lot, what with the breaking of her heart by her . . . Anyway, Garrve did not want to be harsh with her, given all that she had been through lately.
They hitched a team of the greater oxen to the wagon. They could probably have done the job of pulling the wagon free without even having dug around the carriage, but Garrve did not want to pull the wagon apart. The oxen easily pulled the wagon free from the drifted sand, so he led them to a spot where he could unhitch the oxen and hitch them up to the bigger supply wagon. Soon, he had finished hitching the great horses (harvins, as they were called) up to pull Ryan’s wagon back across the field of misery’s sorrow, and was about to prepare the others so that they could make the journey. He thought of Joan and decided that he would ask if she had her appetite back.
“Lady Joan, we really must be going soon. I wondered if you should like to eat something before we leave. I know that things are difficult for you right now, but we will need your help getting through the flower fields today. I should hope that you would eat something to ready yourself against any complications. My Lady?”
“I suppose that you are right. I shall be out shortly.” was her reply.
“I thank you, my lady.”
“You are welcome.” Joan half whispered in return.
It was not very shortly that she actually emerged from the great wagon. In fact, Garrve thought that she was taking her sweet time. However, when she opened the door to get out of the wagon, he could see that she had not had a sweet time of things. Though she had dried the tears, her eyes were swollen and reddened from her having tried to cry them out. Garrve thought that it was lucky that she had not succeeded in doing so because it would definitely have ruined her looks. He was about to say as much but decided that she would probably not find the humor in that, which was a fairly good call on his part. Instead, he decided to say that it was nice to see her, which would not have gone over very well, either. Luckily, he did not have enough time to do either.
“Is there still any stew left?” Joan asked, expecting no such fortune.
“I did manage to save you some, Lady Joan. Should you like that I have it warmed for you?” asked Garrve.
“I saw you jammerin’ on about it earlier. I put it on again so that it would be hot for her when she finally got herself out of the wagon.” said Nordholst, but he was not nearly as much of a nasal whiner as usual.
“Nordholst! I see that you are your unpleasant self, as always!” said Joan, under her breath.
“What is that?” asked Nordholst.
“I would say that it is an accurate description!” Joan returned.
“What?”
“Never mind! I am hungry and I want to eat,” grumbled Joan, quite gruffly, as she walked toward the fire.
“Was it something that I said?” asked Nordholst, but Joan had gone her way.
She grabbed a bowl and began to fill it with the stew. Garrve was right, it was not much. In fact, Joan thought that it tasted like the glue maker’s facility had smelled that she had visited as a child. She was quite sure that if she ate that stew that she would be in much worse shape than if she went without food. Suddenly, she remembered that Ryan had some apples that he had saved from an abandoned orchard that they always passed along the way to the desert. As she began to walk back to the wagon, she heard Wafflestonks and Garrve arguing a
bout something.
“Waffleses!” yelled the interim king.
“I am quite sure that my name is not Waffleses.” replied Nordholst.
A well-built man came running as fast as he could, which was fairly impressive.
“Yes, sir?” he panted.
“Waffleses, what did you say this man’s name was?”
“Let’s see . . . Was it Nor . . . Norquist?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I am asking you!”
“Well, we have so many different males traveling with us from different cultures and lands that I find it hard to remember them all, let alone their names. Let’s see . . . Have you tried asking him? Maybe he would know such a thing!”
“You don’t think that I would have thought of such a wonderful idea? Of course, I asked him!” pressed the slaver.
“Was it Nor . . . Norway? Of course not! What a stupid name for a soldier! He would probably resent such a name . . . and end up becoming the father of a nation of raiding pirates! Norbert . . . Nor . . . It seems to me now that . . .”
“It seems to me that you never did know his name.” jabbed the king.
“I heard enough of this conversation the first time to know that it will get you nowhere. And I will not even hear about irony, it is so overrated, anyway!” scolded Joan. She went on to say, “You will probably remember after we pass through the misery’s sorrow a time or two, anyway. Quit arguing, and get this caravan going!”
“I realize that this must be frustrating to you, having to explain things to us over and over again, but try to see things from our perspective.” Wafflestonks requested.
“No.” was Joan’s reply. “Get to work!”
The three men just looked at each other and wondered which one of them would break the news to Joan. Finally, Garrve decided that, as provisional king, he would have to be the one to face her, wrath or no.
“My lady, the matter is treated as follows; we have no way of discussing who will do which task unless we are able to assign names to each other.” he explained.
“I see your dilemma,” she said, as she pointed at each of them, one by one. “You are Garrve! You are Nordholst! You are Wafflestonks!”
“Wafflesgonks?” questioned both Nordholst and Wafflestonks himself.
Joan just looked each one in the eyes sternly and then turned to get the apples in Ryan’s wagon so as to feed her growling stomach. It must have been growling loudly enough that all could hear, because when Nordholst said that she would probably be less grouchy after she had eaten, all three laughed. As she stepped on the bottom rung of the stepladder of the wagon, a glare from Joan silenced them, though. They looked around sheepishly, as she climbed the rest of the way into the wagon and closed the door. Soon they were checking the yokes and hitches to see that all of the wagons were ready for the drive, and then each hopped up on a wagon and waited for the signal to drive it away.
“Let’s go!” yelled Garrve, at length.
“That’s not the way to get them to move!” argued Nordholst, of whom Joan marveled, thinking that his memory might not be there, but the old belligerent attitude was. “You’re supposed to say, ‘Wagons, ho!’ like that!” he continued.
Wafflestonks began, “No, now I think that . . .”
“MOVE!” yelled “Lady” Joan out the window, loudly enough to startle the livestock and make them jump forward; with that, they were off.
Joan commenced sobbing silently in the carriage. She wondered how her faith could hold. She believed in God, but she wondered if He believed in her. If not, she would perish here in the desert.
Suddenly she felt like she needed to pray.
