by Tyler Krings
They reached the house just as the first rays of sunlight crested the hills. The old man dismounted first and held his reins to the boy. He gathered the woman in canvas from the back of the boy’s horse and carried her inside, trusting the boy to take care of the horses. In the spare room on the second floor, the one with the corner windows, he laid her on the soft mattress. When they had built the house, he had thought that one day the boy might want a family. He did not regret the extra work, but it did not seem that the boy thought as much about the additions as the old man had hoped.
The old man shed the tent canvas and covered the woman with the blankets as carefully as he dared before leaving her. He came downstairs to find the boy had already unpacked their bows and was starting a fire in the large stone fireplace. The rabbits they had shot earlier hung from a string on his back.
“Get a stew going,” said the old man, “Then come sit with me.”
The boy nodded and headed to the kitchen. The old man walked to the large window facing the Imperial Road and stared at the awakening sun beyond jagged mountains. A time of change was nearly upon them. The boy would be ready, or he would not. The old man took his sword from his belt and laid it on its rack to the right of the fireplace. The boy had already racked his to the left. The old man took the ivory box from atop the mantle and brought out his oaken carved pipe. The tobacco in his pouch was older than he cared to admit, but it was still better than anything out of the market these days.
The sounds of the boy skinning rabbits filtered through the wooded halls, and the fire crackled quietly. The old man sat down on one of two rockers by the fireplace and took his time lighting the pipe. The woman, the goddess, changed everything. The time of his exile was nearing an end, and the time for the boy’s vengeance was coming to a head. Though he had tried, he did not think that he could spare the boy his destiny, and he did not know whether the boy would accept any other. More than a part of him hoped, prayed, that the boy would not. When it happened, and it would, though the old man knew not when, it would happen quickly. Time is no longer on our side.
The boy came out of the kitchens and washed his hands in the basin. He approached the mantel and took out a pipe of his own making. He sat down opposite the old man and lit the pipe with a slow draw.
Perhaps they had time yet.
“What are those markings?” asked the boy between puffs.
The old man blew out some smoke. “They are the Aden. The Marks of Heaven.”
“She the one you were expecting?”
“More or less.”
The boy paused to smoke, “Who is she?”
“She is the Lady of the Wind.”
“You can tell that from the markings?”
“Yes.”
“And they will come looking for her?” the boy asked. It was not fear in his voice, it was something worse. Anticipation.
“Most likely.”
The boy nodded thoughtfully. “When?”
“Soon.”
“What do we do now?”
The old man thought carefully, “We do what we always do. Wait for the stew, and finish smoking.”
“I mean about her.”
“Wait for her to wake up. And await further instruction.”
The boy paused. “Should we….”
“Leave her alone,” the old man said. “She’s going to need some time to adjust.”
She opened her eyes. The light of the rising sun reflected dimly across wooden rafters. Splinters and uneven cuts cast tiny, jagged shadows against a vaulted ceiling. She took a breath and was surprised by the crispness of the air. Autumn grass saturated with morning, smoke from an old fire, and the smell of men filled her senses. Birds conversed somewhere outside a cracked window. She moved her head against a stiff pillow and grimaced at the brilliant light reflecting from the clear pane. The colors beyond the glass were the most profound. Blue, green, white, yellow, red, all of them deep and contrasted against one another yet somehow in harmony. Startling clouds rolled unhindered through stark blue skies. Sunlight covered everything, making shadows hard to find. The smells of cooking meat drafted with the smell of the smoke upward from somewhere below her.
She shifted onto her elbows, raising her torso slowly, almost losing her balance on feathered cushions. The rough blanket fell away from her flawless skin, baring her body to the cool morning air. She shuddered as bumps rose on her shoulders, flinching from the unexpected…cold. It was cold here, though not unbearably so. And there was wind.
She sighed in exasperated relief, so much so that she nearly fell back against the uneven cushions. The wind buffeted her lightly from the small opening in the window across the room. She let it curl around her exposed skin and massage aching muscles, giving some life back into the remains of her heavenly body.
Where am I? she asked.
You are here, answered the wind.
This is Evanna?
This is home.
She smiled. The Fall…had been more traumatic than she had expected. However, she had nothing to compare it to. Her usual transitions into the world of humans were highly regulated and painless, but she had never come as a mortal. She had known pain, but this…ache…was not what she knew.
A deep voice called from outside, answered by something hard and punctual. She pushed the covers from her legs and slowly maneuvered them to hang off the side of the bed. She felt the polished wood floor under her feet and blanched at the dull pain resonating through her lower legs. She tried to rise, only to fall again against the mattress.
It’s hard to stand, she told the wind.
Then don’t.
She extended her senses, feeling the flow of the wind through the plains and farmlands, rushing down from the distant mountains and over the river. With some exertion, more than she expected, she willed the wind to her. A small rush of air took her arms and helped her to her feet. The pain radiated up her legs and into her lower back.
“Ah,” she moaned. She put her hand to her mouth, startled at the sound of her voice. It was not the sing-song quality she was accustomed to, and it rasped horribly. The wind parted, leaving her slowly, allowing her feet room to work. She stumbled and reached out to the wall. Her hand cramped under the weight of her body, and she fell into it shoulder first. Hard wood roughly encountered unblemished skin. She moaned again as she pushed off the wall and held herself in front of the window, her startled breaths fogging the glass.
The scene before her was as new as it was beautiful. Light shone on green grass and brown fields. Wind ruffled orange leaves of trees not so far away. White topped mountains guarded the horizon, competing with clouds to reach the sky. A man, shirtless, took an axe to a pile of wood near a wooden shelter, sweat glistening off his scarred skin. She stared at him, his muscles moving with the swing of the axe, listening to the sound of splitting wood and grunting breaths before she looked down at her own, naked body. She marveled at the blackened soot that smeared what had been flawless. Her Aden was barely visible across her arms. She took a hand to her shoulder and only succeeded in smearing it further. She turned from the window. A copper tub she had not noticed sat in the corner of the room. It was big enough for her whole body, as high as her waist, and already filled. Clean clothing hung from the closed door: simple brown trousers and a white blouse.
She carefully limped, using the bed as a crutch, to where the tub lay. Her legs did not fail this time, but the pain was no less. She grasped the edge of the tub and palmed the top of the water. Warmth flooded her hand and she shuddered in relief. Carefully she crawled in, lazily splashing water onto the wooden floorboards. The water was lightly perfumed.
She lounged as warm water enveloped her. Pain gradually eased, and soot parted from her skin. She took water in her hands and splashed her face, rubbing ash from her eyes and massaging her cheeks and…she paused. She had no hair. She rubbed her scalp, grating fine fingernails on baby soft skin. The finest hair. Locks golden and envied, burnt to nothing in a plunge that shou
ld have killed her. For some reason she mourned its passing more than anything else, more than the pain of her imprisonment and the losses she had felt in the war. She tried to stop her face from convulsing.
Her eyes teared for the first time in millennia. She ducked her head under the water to hide her shame, though there were none to see.
The floorboards creaked in the spare room. The old man did not glance up as he steadily stirred the porridge. He added a pinch of sugar before taking the meat from the fire and setting it on the wooden counter. He took his time with the carving, waiting for the bread to finish rising in the iron oven. The boy would finish with the wood soon and bring in some fresh water, though he was probably tired of doing so at this point. The boy had prepared a warm bath for their guest for the past two days, in the hopes that she would wake. Carrying water from the well, heating it, and toting it up the stairs was a task for stronger backs than that of the old man. He thought perhaps the boy enjoyed emptying the tub even less. He placed a plate over the carved rabbit to keep it warm and threw the carcass in a bucket for Dax.
Ginger footfalls dotted the upstairs hallway, testing the floors. The old man took a cup from the cupboard and filled it with water from the basin. He walked slowly into the living room and took his pipe from the mantle. He lit it after stoking the fire, then sat in his chair while taking light puffs.
The woman appeared at the top of the stairway, unsure of how to proceed. He watched carefully as she took her time testing the stairs, gripping the side rail like a babe who had just learned to walk. She was tall and lithe. Her scalp was pale, but her body cream. The white blouse and trousers fit loosely on her; the trousers were inside out. Neither the blouse nor the trousers did much to hide her beauty, nor would any other clothing, for hers was not the mortal sort. The Aden were covered by the long sleeves for the most part, showing only on the backs of her hands.
The woman paused on the stairs and took a moment to regard the old man. He said nothing. He stared into her starling blue eyes and did not flinch. There was trepidation there, but no fear. She continued her trek downward. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, her face flickered with a victorious grin before she turned to him again.
After a moment of consideration, she walked on shaky legs to the boy’s chair, taking her time crossing the room, and pausing for only a moment to marvel as wood gave way to rug. She grabbed the armrest and pulled herself into the seat facing the old man. She sighed, and the wind at the window gave a rattling pull at the frame. They sat there, staring at one another for a time; the old man puffing quietly and the woman shifting, as though trying to decide whether to keep her back straight or resign to the chairs worn cushions. Eventually she leaned forward, placing an elbow on either knee. She looked at him questioningly. Gale-hallowed eyes beckoned him to grant her a world full of answers.
I know you, she said.
“Speak plainly,” said the old man. “High Speech can be heard elsewhere.”
She seemed startled that he had spoken aloud. She placed a hand to her throat and opened her mouth as if to speak. “I….”
She paused and swallowed. Her voice was rich but hoarse, as if she had breathed smoke.
“Yes,” said the old man. “You know me.”
She eyed him warily. “Who are you?”
“Here, I am an old man. You may call me, Noah.”
She did not reply right away. “I fell?”
“We found you in the forest, after.”
She paused, gazing through him. “Who sent you?” she asked. Talking came more easily now, a melodious tone replacing the cracks in her voice.
The old man set down his pipe and wiped his hands on his trousers. “Through extension, I’m sure it was the same that sent you.”
This gave her pause, and she seemed startled. Yes, they had known each other, millennia past, but he did not expect her to remember any details. Those of the Pantheon carried long memories, but the old man tended to fade from even the sharpest recollections. His gift, and curse. She regarded the swords by the fireplace, taking in the engraving on the scabbards. Recognition passed through her face. She jerked her eyes back to the old man’s.
“You are of Nathera,” she said.
The old man did not reply.
“There are none left,” she probed.
The old man nodded. “So the world believes.”
“That is not possible.”
“Why?”
Her voice failed as she considered the words.
The old man smiled with assurance. “It is what He would have you believe.”
The old man smoked his pipe quietly, watching as the woman’s roamed in thought. Eventually he stood and beckoned for her to follow. He walked to the kitchen and set his cup on the table. He heard the woman rise and follow slowly on untrustworthy legs. He took the plate off the rabbit, donned a leather mitt, and removed the bread from the oven. He placed it on the counter and turned to the woman leaning on the table.
“In the morning, we take care of the stock, then we prepare breakfast.” He closed the oven door to let the coals simmer, then took a knife and sliced the bread, carefully and evenly. He placed a slice on a plate, filled a bowl with porridge, and handed both to the woman.
“This morning I made an exception. There is rabbit on the counter if you’d like,” he said.
She stared at the food strangely and her stomach audibly grumbled. “I…need to eat,” she said strangely.
She sat at the table and picked up a spoon. The old man took a fill for himself and sat across from her. She ate slowly, knowing the motions but unaccustomed to the need. Her eyes lit with delight as she tasted the bread.
“We have need around the farm,” the old man continued. “It is much for the boy to keep up with, and my body is not what it was.” She stopped eating and looked at him. She put down the spoon and her eyes narrowed. “It has been imparted to me that we are to hide your presence.”
“Here? On a farm?” she said.
The old man spooned some porridge. “Until such a time as you can move unnoticed.”
“And when will that be?”
The old man shrugged.
She seemed confused.
“You are human,” the old man pointed out. “You must learn to be so. This is not your home. We do not have servants. What needs to be done, we must do ourselves.” The old man took a sip from his cup. “But, in truth, it is not so much about service, as it is appearance. Should you wish to remain hidden, you must play the part.”
“You make a great many assumptions,” she replied coldly.
“They are not assumptions.”
She looked at him through wide eyes before leaning back in her chair. “What do you know of me?”
“Only the obvious.” He ate his bread, breaking the crust in his hands with delicate precision, his eyes never leaving the woman in front of him. “And what I have been told. I have extended my protection to you, but it is limited. It will not take others long to find you, if they know what they are looking for. Your Aden say much, to those who can read it.”
“Mortals cannot read them.”
“You know as well as I, it is not mortal that will come looking for you.” The old man took a bite of his bread and chewed slowly. He gestured to the food in front of her, recommending she eat.
The woman stared at him for a long moment before picking up her spoon. She prodded her porridge before taking a cautious bite. They ate in silence, spoons on bowls casting echoes in wooden halls. Her face revealed nothing at first, but as new senses came to light, her eyes widened in surprise. She set down her spoon, taking several moments to push and pull the porridge along the inside of her mouth. She eventually swallowed and gasped for air, as though she had forgotten to breathe. She immediately picked up her spoon and attacked her bowl aggressively.
“Slow down,” said Noah. “It’s not going anywhere.”
She eyed him with contempt but heeded his advice. The old man pulled out his pipe a
nd smoked while the woman ate a while longer. When she finished, she lay down her spoon and glanced upward. A look satisfaction tugged at the edge of her lips. She belched with a surprised yelp. The old man raised an eyebrow. She waited in anticipation a moment longer before composing herself as best she could.
“If you know so much,” she said while smoothing her shirt, “you know I never had servants.”
The old man grinned. “Follow me.”
The old Natheran led her outside toward the storage shed where the younger man with no shirt split wood into smaller pieces. She stared at the landscape, marveling at the colors. Had she not known better she would have thought the woods were ablaze. Oranges and reds and yellows lit the tree line, while the wind gently fanned the flames.
It is Autumn, said the Wind.
Fall, she answered. How ironic. The boy turned to them as they approached. He set the split logs in a large pile next to the shed and laid the axe against the wooden wall. Muscles glistened from sweat, and his breath fogged the chill morning air. His hair was cropped short, and his beard was a thin scruff.
“Don a shirt,” said the old man. The younger man eyed the older one but obeyed. He reached for the worn shirt in the grass next to the wood pile, and took his time putting it on.
“This is Ana,” said the old man. She eyed Noah quizzically. “She knows little but is eager to learn.” She raised an eyebrow to the old man as the boy did the same to her.
The old man continued, “Show her how to care for the stock, and some of the less demanding chores. I need to see to the back quarter; it will be late afternoon before I am done.”
