Foundling Wizard

by James Eggebeen

  “Pull,” Ostai said and grasped the rope. They pulled steadily, inching the rope across the outcropping, pulling the tribesman slowly up the rocky wall.

  They took it slow to spare Mu’umba any further damage. Eventually, a large furball appeared at the ledge. Lorit crouched over and helped Mu’umba back onto the path.

  They laid the tribesman out on his back and examined him for any breaks or other visible damage. His breathing was shallow, and he moaned in pain as they moved him. His leg moved unnaturally as Lorit attempted to straighten him out. He moaned loudly as Lorit grasped his leg and pulled it straight.

  “Lorit,” came the voice of Chihon in his mind. “How is he?” she asked.

  “He looks bad,” Lorit replied in his mind.

  “Pull me up. Let me help,” her voice came again.

  “Let’s get Chihon back up here,” Lorit said. He untied the rope from around the tribesman and lowered the end back down the cliff. When Chihon was ready, they pulled her slowly up.

  She examined Mu’umba carefully, paying particular attention to his damaged leg. “We’ll need something to bind this up, so we can carry him without any more damage,” she said.

  Ostai returned with two straight sticks from the firewood bundle. He handed them to Chihon, who placed one on each side of Mu’umba’s leg. She pulled her belt knife, cut strips from the blanket to make bandages, and tied the branches to the tribesman’s leg to hold it still.

  “We’ll have to get him up on the mule,” she said as she finished and stood up.

  “I think there’s a wide spot ahead,” Ostai said. “We can drag him up there. There’s enough space to work there in safety.”

  They folded the blankets up and fastened them to the mule. Ostai led the mule along the path while Lorit followed behind to guide the tribesman’s body as they navigated the narrow path.

  After a while, the path widened out enough that they could safely stand astride the mule. They pulled Mu’umba into a sitting position atop the beast and tied his hands in place. He moaned but did not wake as they carefully pulled and pushed him into a stable position.

  They made their way up the mountain, twisting and turning with the path as they went. They stopped twice to eat and rest, but pushed on until it was too dark to continue.

  Through the night, Chihon sat up with Mu’umba. She made hot black tea and tried to get him to eat. He moaned in pain whenever she touched him. Late in the night, he awoke enough to eat a little and even talk.

  Lorit woke to a hear Chihon and Mu’umba whispering quietly.

  “Drink this,” Chihon said. She lifted the cup to his lips, taking his head in her hand to support him.

  “Mu’umba, hurt,” Mu’umba said.

  “How do you feel?” she asked.

  “Mu’umba strong,” the tribesman said. He swallowed and reached for the cup, but grimaced in pain.

  “You just rest,” she said. “We’ll take good care of you. We’re only another day from Mistwind.”

  Mu’umba perked up at her words. “Mistwind?”

  “Yes,” she said, “We’re almost to Mistwind.”

  “Mistwind good. Mu’umba happy,” he said with a smile as he slumped back into a slumber.

  Chihon gently lowered his head back onto the furs that kept him warm.

  Chapter 18

  By the time they arrived at Mistwind, Mu’umba was no longer able to sit up, even with help. Lorit and Ostai had slung him across the back of the remaining mule and tied him in place like a pack. He bumped along quietly, only occasionally moaning and mumbling in his delirium.

  Mistwind appeared out of the clouds and swirling snow. It was a walled city, but the enemy the walls protected against was the snow and not some threat of attackers. They entered the city gates, and Ostai led them to the Welcome Traveler Inn where Lorit engaged the proprietor.

  “We’re looking for a room for four with a fireplace,” he said. “One of our companions has taken a fall in the snow. He needs warmth.”

  The proprietor searched through his book, as if looking for a suitable room. He looked up and said, “We have only one room open at the moment. It may be a little small for all four of you, but it does have a warm fireplace,” he added. “All our rooms do.”

  Lorit looked at Ostai, who just shrugged. “This is the only inn in Mistwind. We’d better take the room and get your friend in front of the fire. Maybe something else will open up later.”

  “We’ll take it,” Lorit said.

  While Lorit settled their account with the proprietor, Chihon and Ostai struggled to get Mu’umba into the room. Lorit walked in to see the fireplace stacked with wood and Chihon reaching out toward it. “Incendo,” she said, causing the fire to burst to life.

  She carefully unwrapped the tribesman in front of the fireplace, stripping away the layers of blankets and furs until his scaly shimmering skin was exposed to the fire. He seemed to respond as he started to stir and moan more often.

  Chihon prepared a mug of strong black tea and spiced it with herbs. She held it to her lips and blew on the brew until it was warm but not hot. She took Mu’umba’s head in her hand and gently raised it to his lips, encouraging him to take a drink.

  Slowly, he sipped at the tea, taking small, tentative sips at first. Mu’umba seemed to grow more alert, until soon, he was taking large gulps of the tea. Chihon turned from him, heading back toward the fireplace, when he weakly called to her.

  “Smoke,” he said, looking up at her plaintively.

  Chihon searched through his pack until she found his pipe. She smelt the contents of the bowl and brought it to him. “Lorit,” he said weakly.

  “You want me to smoke?” Lorit asked.

  Mu’umba nodded ever so slightly, looking at Lorit. His eyes were glassy and tired looking, but his intent was clear.

  Lorit placed the pipe in his mouth and drew on it without using a match. It lit, and soon the acrid smoke filled his lungs. He took several draws and handed the pipe to Mu’umba.

  “No,” Mu’umba said. “Lorit,” he repeated.

  Lorit continued to smoke the pipe. His thoughts became fuzzy, his extremities numb. Shortly, he no longer felt the pipe in his hand, and then the room itself faded. He was sitting in a hut just as he had with Du’ala, except this time it was Mu’umba sitting across from him.

  “I have failed you, friend,” Mu’umba said clearly, sitting before Lorit in the hut.

  “Why have you failed me?” Lorit asked. “You will soon be better than ever, and we’ll continue on.”

  “I’m afraid that will not be so,” Mu’umba said. He glowed with a golden glow that shifted toward red and back to gold as Lorit watched.

  “You will not continue with us?” Lorit asked.

  “I will not live much longer,” Mu’umba said. “I have been injured. There will be no recovery for this body.”

  Lorit tried to stand in protest, but he was unable to rise. “Why do you say that?” he demanded. “There must be something we can do for you!”

  “There is nothing you can do for me, not in this body,” Mu’umba said. “It has run its course and soon I will leave it behind.” He waved his hand in protest to silence Lorit.

  “Tonight, I will leave this body to make my home in another. I want you to find the monks who honor tradition. There you will witness a fight between two tiny competitors. The winner of the battle will be the body I will inhabit next. Secure that individual and carry it with you. Keep my spirit close.”

  “I don’t understand,” Lorit said. “What’s going to happen?”

  “I will leave this body to inhabit another. You must obtain that body and take it with you. Only then will I be able to continue on with you,” he explained.

  “Is there no other way?” Lorit demanded.

  “There is no other way,” Mu’umba said. He rose and passed his hand before Lorit, saying, “I leave the quest in your hands. Leave this body here and take my spirit with you when you leave.”

  As M
u’umba stood, Lorit’s head cleared, and he was back, sitting in the chair at the inn. Mu’umba had slipped into a sound sleep and was breathing heavily. As Lorit watched, his breathing became heavier and sporadic. He convulsed once, twice, then tensed up and relaxed.

  Lorit shook him, calling out his name repeatedly, until Chihon came over and gently touched his shoulder. “He’s gone, Lorit.”

  “Another death on my hands,” Lorit muttered. “What have I done?”

  “Lorit, you didn’t do anything to Mu’umba. He chose to come with us knowing the dangers,” she added, gently guiding him back to the chair.

  “It’s my fault that he’s here. I led him to his death just like Ardser and Onolt.”

  “Lorit! That’s just not true,” she scolded him. “You didn’t cause any of those deaths.”

  “They are all my fault,” Lorit said. He sat with his head in his hands, refusing to look up at her.

  “What did he say to you?” Chihon asked.

  “He said his spirit was going into the winning competitor and that we were supposed to secure that body and take it with us,” he said dejectedly.

  “What competition?” Chihon asked.

  “He said there was going to be a competition, and he would inhabit the winner.”

  Ostai looked up from the still form of the tribesman. He stood and turned toward Lorit. “There’s a fight every night in the temple. The locals raise and fight crickets. It usually starts right after dinner and goes on until there is a clear winner,” he explained.

  “Surely he didn’t mean that,” Lorit said.

  “That’s the only competition that he could have meant,” Ostai said. “It happens every night.”

  “How would he know about it?” Lorit asked.

  “That’s a mystery, but if you don’t get going, you may miss it,” Ostai said.

  Lorit and Chihon made their way to the temple, a few blocks from the inn. The large entry room was hung with finely woven tapestries depicting wizards, battling against each other, in unfamiliar settings.

  An elderly gentleman entered, carrying a large square wooden box adorned with symbols inlaid with pearl and lacquered over. He placed it on the table and stepped back. “The contestants may enter,” he shouted.

  A second man walked into the temple with all the ceremony of the head of a wedding procession. He carried a clay pot in front of him, carefully cradled in his hands. The pot was covered with a lacquered wood cover bearing a number of large holes and decorated with flowers.

  He placed the pot in the large box and stepped back.

  A boy about Lorit’s age entered behind the man. He carried his clay pot with almost as much ceremony as the older man. He, too, placed his clay pot in the box, opposite the one already there.

  An old man dressed in orange robes and with a shaved head walked in, supporting himself on his staff. He stood beside the table where the box rested, pulling himself to his full height.

  “We gather atop the sacred mountain that stands between the wizards of old and the people of magic,” he intoned. “We remember the battles of the past to assure that they stay in the past.”

  He stepped away from the table and spoke softly. “Let the contest begin.” He waved his hand over the table and waited.

  The older man and the boy each came forward. They removed the cover from their clay pots. The boy reached inside his jacket and pulled out a long thin pair of polished wooden sticks. He deftly reached inside the pot and withdrew the cricket within, placing it in the box. He pulled out another thin straw and twitched the long, thin antenna on each contestant, directing them toward one another.

  The two insects met in the center of the box, circling one another. They twitched their wing casings and quickly jumped head to head, antennae twitching wildly. They darted in and out of the battle almost too fast for the eye to follow. Again and again, the insects engaged and backed away from each other, antennae and tiny wing cases twitching and flicking quickly.

  Eventually, one of the insects turned tail and ran from the other as a loud cheer went up from the crowd. The boy quickly plucked the winning insect from the box and placed it in the clay pot, once again trapping the insect inside. He placed it inside his robe and turned for the door.

  Lorit quickly stepped between the boy and the door. “I’m Lorit, and I would like to buy your cricket.”

  “No,” the boy said reaching for his robe, to protect the clay pot within. “He is my family’s livelihood and a sacred trust.”

  “My friend said his spirit would inhabit the winner tonight, and that I should secure it for him,” Lorit explained.

  “This is a sacred trust,” the boys said, looking at Lorit skeptically. “Who is your friend?”

  “His name is Mu’umba,” Lorit said. “He’s of the Plains of Grass, an Arda’um tribesman. He fell off the mountain on our way here and didn’t survive his injuries.”

  At Lorit’s words, the boy suddenly dropped to his knees and bowed his head to the floor.

  The orange-robed monk nearest him fell flat on his face, touching his head to the floor. He cried out in a loud voice. “Blessed are the people of magic.”

  At his words, the rest of the room followed suit until they were all face down on the floor chanting softly.

  Lorit looked over at Chihon, who simply shrugged. He wondered what he’d gotten himself into this time. Why did these people worship the tribesman when those in the valley below reviled and despised him?

  Lorit waited patiently until everyone rose.

  The boy looked at Lorit. “I’m Itqua.” he said, bowing his head. “It’s my sacred honor to host one of the spirits.” He placed his hand over the clay pot underneath his robe.

  “You have one of the people of magic with you?” he asked with an eager look on his face.

  “We did,” Lorit said. “He died.”

  “They do not die. They transition to another plane,” he said, once again placing his hand atop his robe.

  “He appears dead,” Lorit said sadly.

  “His body may have died. He is not dead.”

  The older monk laid his hand on Lorit’s shoulder. “I am Kour,” he said. “The boy speaks the truth.”

  “He was badly injured during our climb and never recovered,” Lorit explained. “I fear the cold and snow were too much for him in his injured state.”

  “The people of magic do not often venture out of the Plains of Grass. Why was he traveling with you?”

  “We met him while crossing the Plains. Du’ala insisted that he accompany us to Veldwaite. She said he was going to be of some help.” Lorit looked down at the floor. “I don’t see how he’s going to be much help now.”

  “Are you a wizard?” Kour asked, taking a step away from Lorit.

  “Not much of one,” Lorit said angrily. “I couldn’t do anything to help him. When we were in Eldon, they treated him like an animal.”

  “The Holy Mother of the people sent him to aid you?” Kour asked, looking Lorit directly in the eyes as if trying to discern the truth of his response. “A wizard?”

  “She said he was going to help us,” Lorit said sadly.

  “Come, join us,” Kour said. He guided Lorit and Chihon out of the large room and into a more comfortable space, hung with decorative tapestry, similar to the competition room. Large pillows were stacked up in one corner. Kour grabbed the pillows one after another and tossed them into the center of the room until there were enough for all of them. He nodded his head to the pillows and said, “Please sit.”

  Lorit lowered himself cross-legged onto one of the pillows, facing their host. Chihon took the one next to him.

  A second man entered carrying a tray filled with crystal glasses, each holding a large measure of dark green tea steaming profusely in the cold of the evening. Kour motioned to his guests and Lorit took one of them. He held it to his nose and breathed deeply, taking in the scent of mint along with the bitterness of some root he could not precisely identify. He took a sip t
o find it sweet to his tongue.

  “You are indeed honored ones, and you honor us with your presence,” Kour said. He sipped slowly from his tea.

  “Honored?” Chihon asked.

  “Indeed,” Kour said.

  Another monk entered the room, carrying a large, ornately decorated book. He took a seat near Lorit, folding his legs beneath him as he descended onto the large cushion.

  “I am Denghau,” the monk said, “keeper of the legends.”

  He opened the book and held it up, so Lorit could see the illustration. It looked remarkably like Du’ala, the head of Mu’umba’s tribe. As he held the book up, Denghau said, “The Holy Mother.”

  He turned the page to a second illustration. It showed Du’ala holding out her hand toward a tall man with a shaved head and black robes. Fire shot from her fingertips to engulf the man, who directed his staff back at her.

  “The wars of old,” he intoned. Lorit wondered what this was all about. It sounded as if the monk was explaining that Du’ala had fought the temple priests with magic in the ancient past.

  He flipped the page once more to show an illustration that either depicted Zhimosom or was a striking resemblance by coincidence. The wizard spread his arms out wide, holding his staff in one hand. Before him was a broad plain of fertile fields. From his staff a purple light emanated and where it struck tufts of tall grass sprouted up.

  “Does that look like Zhimosom to you?” Lorit asked.

  Chihon peered at the illustration in the book. “It sure does.”

  “The mighty one raised the Plains of Grass to isolate the people of magic from the wizards of old,” he explained. He closed the book and latched it shut with the brass lock.

  “He stopped the wars and raised the Plains of Grass as a barrier to keep the people of magic separate from the wizards,” Denghau explained.

  “When did all this happen?” Lorit asked.

  “Long ago. Before the time of my grandfather’s grandfather,” Denghau said. “The people of magic do not deal with the wizards any longer. How is it that you, a wizard, came to cross the Plains of Grass?”