by Grace Draven
He straightened, not realizing until then that his hands had settled on her hips, stroking them through her clothing. “Don’t fret, Halani. You’ll see her again soon.”
She opened her eyes and gave him a sheepish smile. “I’m far too old to be crying for my mother.”
“Never let that trouble you. I cried oceans of tears for mine.” Malachus prayed that whatever gods Halani and Asil worshipped, they’d be far more merciful to Asil than his mother’s had been.
Halani regarded him with a measuring look. “You have a gift for knowing what to say and make it fit for that moment, though I have a hard time imagining you crying for your mother.”
He gave a light snort. “I didn’t say I did it as an adult.” His lamentations didn’t manifest as tears now but as rage. Buried deep and long-lasting.
She stepped away from his loose embrace, wiped her eyes, and bent to gather up her supplies and the old bandages. “Breakfast is catch-as-catch-can. One of us will bring you something to eat soon. Likely last night’s leftover bread and some cheese. Marata and Talen are leaving with the first group, so he’s dismantled his kitchen. Pray for all of us that it won’t be Passarin who volunteers to take up Marata’s duties. One pot of his stew can annihilate an enemy army.”
Malachus wondered how many people of those remaining would weep copious tears as Marata waved goodbye to them from his wagon. Even when his stomach balked at anything heavier than a broth, he’d enjoyed the free trader cook’s fare.
Unwilling to sit idly by while everyone else worked and sweated under the summer sun, he abandoned the stifling tunic and donned his own garb, which someone had laundered for him. The shirt didn’t bother him; the trousers were another matter. He tied the drawstring in the waist so that they rested lower on his torso, beneath the bandages circling his middle. It didn’t stop the material from chafing his injured hip, enough so that even the medicated padding didn’t offer protection. Undaunted, Malachus used one of his smaller knives to split part of the seam where the garment rubbed the hardest. It looked odd but no worse than moving about camp swaddled in blankets or borrowed tunics too large for him.
Putting on shoes without help presented an even greater challenge. Slipping them onto his feet was nothing; bending over to strap them to his calves almost made him pass out from the pain. Perspiring and queasy, he finally left the wagon’s confines, dressed, shod, and praying he didn’t vomit.
Asil spotted him first and skipped to his side. “You’re dressed! Who helped you?”
He imagined Halani saying the exact same thing but in a voice quite different from Asil’s cheery one. She’d inevitably pin his ears back when she saw him. “I managed alone. I didn’t want to miss seeing you before you left with the others.”
Her bright grin dimmed, then faded altogether. “I wasn’t going to leave without saying goodbye. You’re my friend. Friends tell each other hello and goodbye.”
There was something about Asil’s simple wisdoms that went straight to the heart of every matter. It had been a privilege to meet this odd woman with the wizened face and childlike ways. He wouldn’t see her again, but he’d remember her for all the days remaining to him.
“We’re most definitely friends,” he said. “And friends help each other. What can I do to help you for your trip?”
She chewed on her lower lip for a moment, considering his offer. “I’ve been too busy to pack any of my things from our wagon. You can help me there.” Her gaze traveled over him. “Unless you feel poorly. I don’t want Halani mad at me if you aren’t supposed to work.”
“If she questions us, I’ll tell her it was my idea, and I insisted on being given a task.”
The wagon Asil shared with Halani was much more comfortable than the provender wagon he slept in. Two beds took up one end of the wagon, one on the floor, the other above it built on a platform, both layered in colorful blankets and bolsters that turned the top bed into a couch on which one could sit and entertain. Cupboards and locker seats built into the walls on the long sides of the wagon served as storage. Rugs covered the floor, their pile plush under his bare feet—something Asil insisted on before he entered the abode.
“Keeps things clean in here,” she said. “Or we’d be beating carpets every day until our arms fell off.”
Even the arched ceiling didn’t escape decoration. Someone had painted a mural on the tongue-and-groove matchboards between the support frames, their detail highlighted by the sunlight spilling through the open clerestory windows set high into the walls of the wagon’s long sides.
The interior reminded him of a berth on a ship, where every bit of space served a function.
Asil snatched a cushion from the upper bed and plopped it down on one of the locker seats. “You can sit here and help me fill my traveling chest.”
Though Halani had been distressed at the upcoming separation from her mother, Asil seemed unbothered by it. She talked with hardly a pause between sentences as she and Malachus emptied one chest of possessions into another bigger one and added more Asil insisted she needed for the journey. Most of the items were clothes and grooming tools, hair scarves and her own personal apothecary chest of favorite herbals and elixirs.
A ragged doll sewn from scraps of fabric and bits of rope joined the items. Asil placed it carefully atop the pile, pausing to pet it with reverent hands. The doll had seen better days, its rag dress stained, the rope hair speckled with tiny bits of detritus. Malachus recognized a well-loved toy when he saw one. This doll had been played with so much, it threatened to fall apart.
Asil stared at the doll for a moment, features creased as if she wrestled with some grave, life-altering decision. She turned suddenly, presenting the poppet to Malachus. “Would you like to hold Dove?”
Her unexpected gesture surprised him. No one with eyes could mistake how much she treasured the doll, and he was hesitant to touch it, fearful that if he did so, the fragile thing would disintegrate in his hands. “I’m afraid I’ll break her.”
“It’s all right if you do. I’ve had to sew her legs and arms back on several times, and her head twice.” She thrust the doll at him. “Go ahead.”
He took it gingerly. “Why did you name her Dove?”
“Because Hali has eyes like dove’s wings. She made this doll for me when she was small and we played together. I made one for her, too. It looked like me. She made this one to look like her.”
Truly terrified now that he’d do something to accidentally destroy the poppet, Malachus carefully handed it back to Asil, who gave the rope hair a quick kiss before setting it back in the chest. “It’s a very fitting name,” he said. “Halani does have eyes the color of a dove’s wings.” And skin like a silk ribbon. He shoved away the thought and the images it called to mind.
Asil closed the chest lid, securing the latch before perching atop it. “If I take the doll, it will be like having her with me until the real Hali meets us in Domora.”
He had no reply worthy of such a sentiment. The bond between her and Halani was the stuff of childhood dreams, though in this relationship, the parent had assumed the role of the child and vice versa. It might not work for every mother and daughter, but for this pair it did, and Malachus found it a wondrous thing to behold.
“Does Halani still have the doll you made for her?”
She nodded and pointed to another chest tucked away in the corner. “She doesn’t play with it anymore. She says it’s too valuable now, though I don’t think she’d get half a belsha for it if she tried to sell it.”
Malachus sighed. Spoken like a true trader. “There’s value in things all the belshas in the world can’t buy. Your daughter’s right. Your dolls are beyond price.”
Asil shrugged. “She’s too old to play with a poppet anyway. It’s books now. I’d buy her one in Domora, but Hamod wouldn’t like it. He’d say it’s a waste of good coin.”
Mal
achus frowned. While he had yet to meet the absentee wagon master, he’d overheard enough conversation about him to gain the impression that he was a difficult man at the best of times. Asil’s comment only lowered his opinion. Books were like beloved poppets, their value immeasurable and never a waste of money. He wondered if Hamod would have changed his opinion had he seen the small crowd gathered around Malachus the day before as he read to them from one of the two books he had with him. The enthralled faces staring back at him held the same reverence he’d just witnessed in Asil’s handling of her doll.
An idea took shape in his mind, a way he might repay Halani for her care and something she could share with everyone else in the caravan once he was gone. “Halani said she can’t read.”
“She can’t, but she likes books. Likes to hold them and turn the pages.”
It made sense that none of the free traders were literate. The cost of a book limited the ability to read to those wealthy enough to afford one and a tutor to teach them. Malachus’s extensive literacy was a rarity, one of many benefits he’d reaped as a foster with the Sovatin monks, who’d raised him in a society devoted to learning and whose god was education.
He remembered his first sight of Halani in the market, standing in front of the bookbinder’s stall, a yearning gracing her features as she lingered under the merchant’s narrow gaze to admire one of the books.
“Maybe you can read to her while you’re here,” Asil suggested.
Or teach her to read. If Halani was willing to learn, he could give her a few lessons before he was healed enough to continue his search for the mother-bond. A rudimentary education at best, but with that and maybe a book to help her, she’d find it useful in the future and remember him fondly when they parted ways.
The idea continually turned over in his mind as he helped Asil pack the rest of her essentials. While she refused to let him carry her chest for her, she did allow him to share the burden, and the two hefted it across the campground toward the wagon she pointed to as one she’d travel in for the journey to the Kraelian territories.
“What are you doing?”
They halted together at the question and turned in tandem to face Halani.
Arms akimbo, features set in grim disapproval, she eyed the chest suspended between them before turning a hard stare first on her wide-eyed mother and then on Malachus. She didn’t wait for either of them to answer her before firing off another question. “And why are you wearing clothes?”
Malachus glanced at Asil, who returned it with one that told him he was on his own. He offered Halani a conciliatory smile. “I volunteered to help Asil. Doing so meant wearing something less awkward than a blanket or that tunic I borrowed.” He showed her the cut he’d made in the trousers seam. “I made adjustments.” Fortunately, he’d had Asil to help him with his shoes the second time.
“Asil!”
Kursak’s shout startled the woman so that she jumped, yanking hard on the chest. The movement jerked Malachus’s arm, which in turn tightened his chest muscles. He hissed as a shard of pain lanced his torso from collarbone to abdomen.
Halani leapt forward, her hand wrapping around his to help with the chest. “Mama, be careful!”
“Asil!” Kursak yelled a second time. “Bring the chest here.”
Overwhelmed by orders shouted from two sides, Asil dropped her side of the chest and started to cry.
Abandoning Malachus, Halani enfolded her mother in an embrace. She raised a hand to Kursak, signaling him to stop. The wagon master leapt off the wagon’s half-filled bed and joined them. He stood a little behind the two women. “Sorry, Asil,” he said in a soft voice. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“It wasn’t you, it was me,” Halani replied. “Can you take her things from Malachus? I’ll see to Mama and then him. I’m afraid he might have split one of his wounds.”
“I’m well,” Malachus told Kursak. “Just a twinge. I’m not so injured that I can’t put a box of frocks and hair combs into a wagon by myself.” There was a lot more in the chest than that, but he’d done the one thing he’d tried to avoid—made a nuisance of himself.
Kursak bent to take the chest. “No arguments. Hand it over. I learned a long time ago not to raise Halani’s hackles if I can help it.”
Freed of his burden, Malachus chose to leave mother and daughter alone, surreptitiously watching as Halani patted her mother’s hair and dried her tears. She then kissed Asil’s forehead, told her something that made Asil grin, and sent her to join Kursak, who was rearranging casks, pallets, and the problematic chest.
Malachus braced himself when Halani strode toward him. “You,” she said, pointing a finger, “are trying to heal from life-threatening injuries. Stop undoing all my hard work.”
He raised his hands in surrender. “Forgive me. Guilt got the best of me. Boredom as well. Is Asil better now?”
She gave him a knowing look from the corner of her eye. “Nice attempt at diverting me. Mama is fine, probably better than you. Now, back to the provender wagon with you so I can see what damage you’ve done.”
After a steady stream of grumbling and admonishments, she pronounced him unharmed by his efforts. “If you wish to help,” she said, “find a way to distract the children. They get underfoot in all the excitement. One of the mules almost stepped on Focana’s toddler, and Seydom caught two of the boys trying to stow away in the grain wagon.”
Malachus had no experience with children, unless one counted the childlike Asil. He hadn’t a clue how one might go about distracting them. Then he recalled the expressions on a few of their faces as they sat with their mothers while he read.
He pointed to the single tree a short walk from the camp, its wide, leafy limbs providing ample shade. “Send them there. I’ll meet them once I get a book from the wagon. I can’t promise I can keep their attention long, but I’ll try.”
“You’re going to read to them.” She said it as if he’d just promised to teach them how to fly, wonder and yearning in her voice.
“Yes.” Her reaction convinced him even more that offering to teach her how to read was his best idea. He chose not to mention it then, preferring to wait until things had settled in the camp and he had more time to speak with her.
Keeping small children focused on a single thing for longer than a breath proved more of a challenge than Malachus anticipated, but he managed the deed, employing some of the storytelling techniques he’d seen Halani and Marata use on the crowd. The children were as interested in the book itself as in what was in it, and Malachus held his breath more than a few times as grubby hands carefully turned the book upside down, flipped the pages, and traced the inked words inside. He breathed a sigh of relief when one of the free trader women came to rescue him.
She gathered the children with a practiced hand, unfazed as they dashed and danced around her like snowflakes in a strong wind. “The others are leaving now,” she told them. “Come say goodbye.” She nodded a silent thanks to Malachus for his help. “Halani said to fetch you as well, Malachus. Do you need my help to stand?”
He refused her offer and slowly gained his feet. This invalid treatment was growing tiresome. The children raced toward the cluster of wagons and people waiting on the camp’s new perimeter. Malachus hesitated to approach the group. The free traders had offered him their unstinting hospitality and care, for which he was grateful. The fact that they’d taken him in instead of robbing him and leaving him for dead still amazed him. This was a farewell between members of an extended family, affectionate, teasing, worried, and familiar. He was a guest, a visitor, welcomed among them but not part of them.
Asil would have none of it. She shouldered her way through the crowd, Halani following close behind her, and ran toward him. “Malachus!”
Malachus planted his feet, bent his knees, and braced himself as Asil looked ready to launch herself at him. This was going to hurt.
Asil curbed her lunge toward him, pulling up short. She shuffled toward him instead, and he met her halfway, offering an embrace she enthusiastically claimed. He clenched his teeth against a groan when her arms squeezed his middle, and she nestled her face dangerously close to his chest injury.
When they parted, Asil’s smile held a touch of sadness. “Will I see you again, Malachus?”
He lifted her work-roughened hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “You’re a traveler like me. Such folk inevitably cross paths with each other. Be well, Asil. It has been my honor to know you.”
She blushed, snapped forward to plant a damp kiss on his cheek, and scampered back toward the departing free traders. Halani turned to him, gratitude in her eyes.
“Thank you for not giving her false hope. Yours was a good answer.”
“And as honest as I could make it without disappointing her.” The likelihood of him meeting Asil again was slim. He touched Halani’s arm. “Are you all right?”
“I will be.” The forlorn look she wore gave way to a half smile. “You did better than you thought with distracting the children. I think they liked your book. Parents will sing your praises for days to come.”
Again, that faint touch of envy in her voice. So far he’d read to a small crowd twice, and she’d missed both opportunities to hear. “I have yet to read to you,” he said. “I can do so tonight if you aren’t too tired. It’s a good way to help daughters not dwell on their worry for their mothers.”
Her half smile bloomed to a full one. “I think that’s a wonderful idea.”
They made plans to meet in front of her wagon after supper. “We’ll all be too tired to listen to or tell a story tonight,” she said. “My presence won’t be missed at the main fire.”
