Royal Falcon

by Chris Svartbeck

  The men had spent the entire night consulting while the women tried to console the children, who were screaming from thirst. They couldn’t leave the village. The ashes of their ancestors were entombed in the loam walls of their houses. If they left, the winds that swept mercilessly across the plain would soon erode the walls and turn their ancestors into itinerant, wandering spirits.

  There was only one solution. The men knew what it meant for the village; their voices were somber. The women also knew the price for saving the village and wept without tears.

  The next morning, two young men were sent out to find a sorcerer.

  When they returned three days later, the first children had already died.

  The sorcerer rode into the village on a clattering cart drawn by black oxen. To Jokon’s great surprise, it was a young man; his short hair and curly beard were still jet-black. He wore a plain, brown robe. Jokon was very disappointed. So, this was one of the infamous sorcerers? Miron, the village smith looked more impressive.

  The sorcerer was a very practical sort; he had loaded his cart with ten barrels of fresh water. Women and men alike praised him, truly grateful, as they distributed small portions of water to everyone. For the first time in days, the children stopped whimpering. The village waited.

  The sorcerer needed some privacy to prepare. He withdrew to the small Temple of the Burning Goddess at the edge of the village square and remained there until late afternoon.

  In the meantime, Jokon grew restless. Something intangible seemed to be happening around him. Whether he stayed within the circle of farms, ran to the desiccated gardens, or even to the edge of the field, a strange buzzing followed him. Not even sticking his fingers in his ears helped; he could still hear it. Annoyed, he climbed onto the straw roof of his parents’ house and nestled into a little recess directly under the roof. From there, he had an excellent view of the village square and the spring. What he saw there made all thoughts of the buzzing vanish.

  The sorcerer had reappeared, dressed in a violet robe with bright yellow and green feather patterns. Those must be his sorcerer’s robes. Amidst the plainly-dressed, dust-covered villagers, he looked like a bird of paradise that had flown off course. The sorcerer walked straight to the barren well and ordered the men to bring him the large box from under the bench on his cart.

  He carefully removed a round object, about three hands wide and wrapped in a thick piece of cloth, from the bottom of the box. He appeared to murmur something as he slowly unwrapped the cloth. A collective gasp coursed through the crowd. There, in the middle of the village, lay one of the most powerful magical artefacts a person could create: a large mirror!

  Jokon nearly fell off the roof. He couldn’t turn away from the glowing pane and the shimmering light of the sun reflecting off the black hair of the villagers and the red loam walls of the huts. He buried his hands in the straw and gripped it tightly.

  The sorcerer walked to the desiccated well and placed the mirror inside it.

  He sang a few words in a melodious voice. It sounded like gibberish to Jokon, but it must have been a powerful spell because when he was done, the surface of the mirror began to move. It no longer showed the reflection of the sky and had turned a deep, dark blue, almost as dark as deep water. Jokon had barely had the thought when the surface of the mirror broke open, and clear water began to bubble out. It quickly filled the well basin and overflowed. After a moment of amazed awe, the men started bustling about. They gestured wildly, called out to each other and ran off to get shovels. In no time, they had formed a group and dug a ditch toward the fields in the dry dirt, so the precious water wouldn’t seep into the dry village square, unused. The women and children helped carry away the dirt in baskets and mats. The sorcerer stood there, his arms folded over his chest, with a very smug expression on his face.

  Jokon climbed down from the roof and hesitantly approached the well. He carefully peered in. The mirror had disappeared. A water-spewing hole that seemed to lead to the deepest depths of the world remained in its place.

  Dazed, he took a step back and closed his eyes. The burbling of the new well suddenly sounded menacing. Overcome with fear, he spun on his heels and ran home. No one was there but the bleating goat, tethered in her corner and screaming for water. The water was flowing again ... Jokon poured the rest of the spare jug of water into the goat’s trough. Then, he sat down next to her, hugged her and started to weep with fear.

  A hazy sun touched the horizon. The sorcerer, who had changed back into his brown travel robes, demanded his payment. The villagers obeyed, reluctantly, trying to delay the inevitable. But no one dared not pay their part. They all brought their children to the village square. Terrified mothers carried the smaller children, many of whom were already wrapped in their sleeping mats, and fathers and older siblings went to get the older children.

  Jokon looked up as his father arrived at the hut. His lower lip was trembling, but he obeyed, silently, as his father gruffly ordered him to come with him to the village square. His father seemed just as frightened as he was. Just outside, still concealed by the courtyard walls, his father suddenly turned to him and hugged him very tightly.

  “Remember son, we love you, we will always love you, no matter what happens. Be strong. Whatever happens, never forget that our village will live again,” he stopped, a strange glint in his eye.

  Apparently, his father had had the same dark premonition he’d had.

  Jokon apprehensively followed him to the village square. He joined the other children in a circle. The sorcerer stood in the center of the circle. The men formed another circle around the circle of children. The women stood to the side in small groups. No one said a word. It was as though the village were holding its breath.

  The sorcerer walked around the inner circle. Every so often, he would stop, nod, and pull a child into the middle. He also stopped before Jokon.

  Jokon focused on the ground. Sweat dripped from between his shoulder blades and down his back. He suddenly felt the sorcerer’s hand on his shoulder. He suppressed a scream. He slowly looked up, his heart pounding. The sorcerer’s face was directly above him. His eyes were like matte, black glass. The sorcerer’s mouth smiled, but his eyes were cold.

  “Yes,” he murmured, “this is good stock!”

  The next moment, Jokon found himself the middle.

  When the inspection was over, seven children were standing in the circle. Well, six were standing, one was lying down. The sorcerer had carried Lira, who was only five months old, into the circle. Lira’s mother had screamed once, briefly. Otherwise, all of the villagers had remained silent.

  “You will come with me,” the sorcerer commanded and led the way to his cart.

  The villagers stepped out of his way to create a path. Jacitin, the oldest of the group of children, with her twelve monsoon seasons, carried little Lira. There was enough space for all of them on the cart, between the empty kegs. Then, the sorcerer hopped up onto the bench and slapped the reins against the backs of the oxen. Stone-faced fathers, mothers and siblings watched the seven children leave the village. It wasn’t until after the clattering cart passed the village border beneath the spirit tree, that voices rose behind them. Loud, lamenting voices and desperate calls. Jokon needed a moment to realize their parents had begun to sing the lamentation for the dead. Paralyzed with fear, the children sat between the clattering water kegs, not making a sound. The sorcerer cracked the whip on the backs of the black oxen as he whistled a little ditty.

  The trip took several hours; until well into the night. Jokon’s parents had always drilled into him that he had to stay inside the house after dusk. The danger of encountering a wandering spirit was too great. The sorcerer didn’t seem to mind. He snapped his fingers and a ball of light appeared on his hand. On his command, the light floated up and flew in front of the wagon to light the way. The oxen were apparently familiar with this and simply trotted along, unperturbed. With each step, bare trees and bushes briefly appeared, the
n disappeared back into the flickering shadows. Dust turned the narrow crescent moon blood red. Nightjars flitted overhead and emitted their chastising cries. The spirit birds! The spirits couldn’t be far behind! Jokon ducked down, afraid, and his hand absently wandered to Jacitin. She took it and stroked it, calmingly.

  Just before the moon reached its apogee, they reached the sorcerer’s estate. It jutted into the night sky like a giant, black hill. The gate, which opened before them as though guided by an invisible force, was embedded in a massive stone wall. The oxen headed straight through the courtyard, toward the entrance to a large building. Amazed, Jokon saw that two endlessly long wings stretched out to the right and the left. A massive tower arose at the end of the right wing. It was bigger than the spirit tree in the village.

  The entrance to the house also opened silently but here, human hands pushed open the wings of the door. The sorcerer ignored his servants, stepped down from the cart without saying a word, and disappeared into the warm light of the interior. The children clung tightly to each other, not moving a muscle; paralyzed by fear, fatigue and the cold of the night.

  Several servants approached the cart. An energetic, older woman commandingly waved a long cane around, issuing terse orders. The servants pushed the kegs aside and coaxed the children, who were clinging to each other, out of the cart with kind words. Each child was lifted off the cart by powerful arms and carried into the welcome warmth of the house. The spirited woman called the older man who was carrying Jokon, Karados. He reminded Jokon a bit of his uncle, Harg. Uncle Harg also had a pointy beard and a bulbous nose... The man carried him down a long hallway and, finally, into a small room where a comfortable-looking bed awaited him.

  But it wasn’t over, yet. The man smiled crookedly as he pushed open a small door and shoved Jokon into a side room. Inside, he saw a steaming bathtub and a small toilet in the corner.

  “Wash the journey off you,” the man said, not entirely unfriendly, “I will get you something to eat.”

  Jokon relieved himself, then got into the tub where, lulled by the heat, he promptly fell asleep after a few minutes. His thin body immediately slid deeper into the tub. The next thing he knew, he was inhaling water. He woke up, startled and completely disoriented. For a moment, he twisted around wildly underwater as he searched, in vain, for air. Then, a strong hand grabbed him by the hair and pulled him up. As he gasped for air and coughed, the man said gently, “Well, little one, it’s a good thing the kitchen isn’t far! You should wait a bit before you practice breathing underwater!”

  He helped Jokon scrub himself, then gave him a fresh shirt and a bit of warm soup to eat.

  Full and completely exhausted, Jokon fell onto the soft, wide bed and immediately fell asleep.

  *

  Prince Ioro cried as he stumbled toward his mother. The first concubine knelt dutifully to comfort the little dear, His Majesty, with the appropriate politeness.

  “Mama,” the little boy sobbed, “Tolioro doesn’t want to make me his commander!”

  “Don’t cry, my darling! Commanders are not allowed to cry! Tolioromehme will have to make you his commander, as is tradition. Don’t be angry with him. He is still too young to understand tradition.” She stuck a candied fruit in Ioro’s mouth and dried his tears with the yellow-embroidered silk sleeve of her robes. “Look, there’s a peacock fight at the Blue Pavilion. Do you want to command a peacock?”

  He quickly forgot Tolioro’s slight. The little commander ran off to secure his peacock soldier. With a deep breath, Miomio pulled herself up using the pergola railing and carefully stretched. She was very pregnant and having trouble with her heavy stomach. Hopefully it would be another son. Her royal husband, Kanata, was so infatuated with his eldest, Ioro, even if he could never be heir to the throne. Tolioro, however... the heir to the Falcon Throne was weak, as thin as a rod and seemed a bit dumb. She fanned her face. Dumb may not be such a bad thing. Dumb kings need smart advisors. And commanders.

  She heard the shrill screech of a bird. Miomio looked up at the sky. High above the palace garden, a falcon was flying in circles on the warm currents. The royal family’s heraldic bird. There could be no better omen. Miomio lay back down onto the hammock with a satisfied smile, fished out another piece of candy, and enjoyed the splendor of the ornamental vines as their heavy aroma drifted through the royal garden on a gentle southerly breeze.

  *

  Someone ran past the door in clattering wooden sandals. Jokon shot up. He looked around the room, confused. The sun was shining through a small window with proper glass panes and onto the large, wooden bed. Glass panes, what a luxury! In the distance, he could see a falcon flying in majestic circles. His gaze wandered further. A large, heavy dresser stood next to the window, its doors wide open but empty, save a gray robe. Jokon touched the unusually soft, thick blanket over his legs. Where was he? Whose bed was this?

  Then he remembered everything: the mirror, the well, the sorcerer... His stomach tightened into a knot for a moment. He missed his parents. He missed his little sister, Mia. He even missed the stinky goat!

  Then, his stomach sent another message. He missed food. Jokon got out of bed. The black floor tiles, warmed by the sun, felt pleasant on his bare feet. Since he didn’t see any other clothing, he donned the gray robe from the dresser, then carefully opened the bedroom door. A long, vaulted hallway, with several windows on one side and as many doors on the other, stretched out before him. Far back on the right, the hall curved to the left. He could hear voices, the clattering of pots and, best of all, he could smell the aroma of freshly baked bread. His stomach growled audibly. Jokon didn’t hesitate any longer.

  Beyond the curve, the hallway opened up into a large room. There were children sitting on long benches at several wooden tables. Behind that, separated only by a wide archway, was a large kitchen filled with men and women working busily. Jokon noticed the children and youths were all sitting at the tables in groups wearing the same color robes. In the front on the right, at least a dozen children with gray robes were sitting at two tables and behind that, there were two more tables with fewer children in green robes. Most of the children in green robes appeared somewhat older. Eleven youths in blue robes were sitting at one of the two tables on the left, and three young adults in red robes sat at the last table. The oldest of them, a good-looking, smiling man of perhaps twenty, was casually leaning back against the wall. The two further forward, a narrow-lipped woman with cold eyes and a clearly younger, still beardless man with a faded knife scar on his cheek, were leaning over the table, looking at Jokon with great interest. This last table stood somewhat apart from the others and the children from the other tables were clearly trying to avoid making eye contact with the three in red robes.

  A thin, lanky boy with a hooked nose and stringy hair, who could only be a bit older than Jokon, looked up from the first table of gray-robed children and waved at him. “Hello! A newcomer! Come, join us!”

  Jokon carefully walked toward the table.

  “Hey, I don’t bite!” the young man grinned. “I am Tevi, I come from Kamiataneeri and I’ve been here since last monsoon season!”

  His grin was contagious. Jokon smiled back and introduced himself. “And I am Jokon from Maneetimai.”

  Tevi patted the bench next to him invitingly, and Jokon quickly sat down. The table was filled with fresh bread, fragrant oil, slices of cold roast and cheese. They only ate like this at festivals in his village. Jokon didn’t have to be told twice and started shoveling food into his mouth.

  While he ate, the other five children from his village appeared. Four of them walked toward Jokon’s table. Dogon, who was one monsoon season older than he and had powerful muscles, simply shoved a few of the other children aside to make space. Aleti and Kabato sat down to Dogon’s left and Sacan, who was only three years old, inched as close to him as she could on his right. Jacitin went to the neighboring table where a whole side was still unoccupied. She sat down where she was as far away fro
m the other table as possible.

  Jokon noticed that she barely touched her food. Her eyes looked as though she had been crying.

  After breakfast, the older woman, who had barked orders at the servants the night before, appeared at their table and called for silence.

  “You are new,” she said, “so I will explain a few rules to you. The sorcerer who owns this house is named Go. You will call him Master Go. You will not cause any mischief in his house. You will study diligently every day. You will rise when the sun shines into your room. Remember, you must wash yourselves and always wear clean clothes. Then, you will come here for breakfast. After breakfast, you will have lessons. The older children will show you where. After lessons, you will have a break during which you may do as you please. However, you are not permitted to leave the grounds. You will remain within the walls. You will have no contact with the outside world; no letters, no visits. Study diligently, don’t do anything stupid, and be quiet so Master Go isn’t disturbed. Under no circumstances are you permitted to go near the tower. After the hour of the crow, the gong will summon you back to your lessons, which will continue until sunset. Then, you will eat supper here. And then you will go to sleep.”

  “Excuse me, please,” Jokon timidly forced out, “but what kind of lessons?”

  She snorted derisively. “More country bumpkins!”

  As she turned around to leave, she answered over her shoulder, “Sorcery lessons, of course!”

  Jokon was thunderstruck. Sorcery lessons? His eyes slid along the table, seeking help. His fellow villagers looked just as dismayed as he, while the other children grinned from ear to ear. Tevi took mercy on them.