Dreams of the Compass Rose

by Vera Nazarian

  Nadir did not know how long it was, this burning eternity. He lay face down in the scalding powder, and finally a fire in his mind brought him enough awareness to lift his head and see Caelqua lying in a heap at the feet of their Grandmother.

  Nadir crawled. He would not remember how long it took him to crawl those few feet, while the wind howled like a horde of jinn and cut him in the eyes, forced him back every inch. At last, he could touch the two sprawled figures. He drew himself close, and covered his sister’s head with his body, acting as a shield against the sun. Next, with supreme effort, he tugged his thin pale tunic from his upper body, baring his dark back, and wrapped the cotton around Grandmother’s forehead and eyes, shielding her too from the sun.

  He lay thus for an eternity, sinking in and out of this world. And each time as he resurfaced, he felt the hell upon his back, the agony, until the sun began to lean in the sky toward the West. It was sunset.

  They had been denied water for only one day. And yet, because this was the desert, and because they had no shelter against the molten gold overhead, death would be very near. . . . As the sun bled orange upon the Western horizon and the wind cooled, Caelqua regained consciousness with a shudder. She moved, feeling the small thin body of the boy pressing against her forehead, savoring its odd coolness. Nadir’s cheek was pressed against the sand, and he was half-buried by a moving dune. Grandmother lay only a little away, barely breathing. Caelqua burrowed out of the stifling powder.

  “Grandmother! Nadir!” She choked on a mouthful of sand.

  The two piles of humanity began to stir. Nadir shuddered, resurfacing, while Grandmother barely moved her head to the side and squinted. And almost—just almost—her lips smiled. And at that Caelqua reached out toward Grandmother, and then began to quake with dry tearless weeping.

  “. . . Pray, my child . . .” whispered Grandmother’s faint voice. “You must pray to Ris . . .”

  And Caelqua continued trembling, for as she wept she was also burning up with fever. They found that Nadir could not move. When Caelqua touched his back, the skin peeled away, and dark blood welled at the place where her fingers had touched. At her touch and its agony, Nadir cried out.

  “You too must pray, my Nadir . . .” croaked Grandmother. “It is time. . . . And I will pray with you . . . also.”

  And then her eyes closed again, and her lips fell motionless in their final soft smile. The sunset burned and faded.

  There were dreams interspersed with prayers, in the darkness of the moonless night. At some point, Nadir thought he heard his own voice crying, and there were shameless tears running down his cheeks, like needles of broken pride, as he called out hoarsely, mindlessly, the name of “Ris,” the Mad Sovereign of Wisdom. And he thought he had crawled forward and leaned his head over the body of Grandmother, and let the boundless tears mixed with his sweat drip down like a burning torrent onto her dry lips, washing her face. . . . And, at some point, Caelqua felt some other’s voice come wrenching from her gut, strong and new, calling upon “Ris,” the Bright-Eyed Liberator. And she felt her teeth sink into her own wrists, tasting her own blood which then became water. In a maelstrom of agony and night, those bleeding wrists she offered to Grandmother, held them at the old woman’s parched lips, letting her drink endlessly from the vein. . . .

  The crescent moon arose briefly after midnight, spilling a silver glow upon the world. And it seemed the very sand dunes were in reality cresting waves of a great ocean, while the desert spilled around them with the cold oceanic currents of the night, liquid and boundless. . . . The waters of the night ocean swelled into giant forms, and they moved all around them, licking the very walls of Livais, scaling them, and filling the town to the very brim with liquid metallic moonlight. . . .

  At dawn Nadir awoke just as the sun showed on the Eastern horizon. There was fever in his mind.

  Grandmother and Caelqua were gone.

  He looked around, thinking that maybe they’d moved in the night. And then he began to dig, clawing at the sand, for he thought that a roving dune had advanced in the dark and buried them with its whiteness.

  “Grandmother!” Nadir called, his voice as quiet as a scorpion’s, his lungs dry and parched with sudden anger.

  “Caelqua! Stupid useless girl, where are you?” He dug wildly, crawling on his knees in the sand.

  And yet, as the sun came up higher, beginning to scald, there was no trace of the old woman

  —his Grandmother whom he knew as Ris—nor of the girl with hair like flames. Nadir stilled suddenly, and whispered into the face of the morning wind, “She is gone . . . She has left me . . . And you too, my sister . . .

  “No!” he croaked then, his little dark face crinkling into a grimace of sand and pain. “No!

  No! Keep digging! No!”

  And then something prompted him to glance away from the sand before him. He turned away, mesmerized, and stared behind him, where only a little away stood the town walls of Livais.

  And as the sunlight danced on what had once been stone, it reflected back metallic, for the walls had turned to blazing gold. . . .

  The gates of Livais stood open. Nadir moved slowly like a sleepwalker in a daydream, and looked around him with parched eyes at terrifying marvelous gold.

  It was everywhere—gold buildings, gold cobblestones, gilded palm and date trees, people frozen to precious statues, and everywhere, golden dust. . . .

  In the center of town stood the well, gilded at the rim. When Nadir approached it, staggering, he discovered the rope was also gold, and so was the bucket. And instead of water there was only solid metal, stilled forever in a golden blaze under the sun.

  “I must go from here . . .” he croaked to himself. “There is nothing here, only the judgment of the gods. This place is cursed. I don’t want to die here, so let me at least go into the clean desert—”

  “Why die, my Nadir?” came a familiar voice.

  He turned to see Grandmother, standing upright, with bright eyes and a clean face, with not a trace of sand on her white cotton robe billowing lightly in the wind. For an instant, Nadir was speechless. And then a wild smile contorted his small dark face, and he rushed forward to hug her.

  “Grandmother! I thought you’d died! Or left us!”

  “What nonsense! How can I ever leave those who are mine? Come, and I will give you water to drink—water, without which there is no life, and because of which this town perished in their folly.”

  “But where is Caelqua? And how—” Nadir was speaking foolishly, words just tumbling out of him like droplets of water.

  “Come along, hurry now!” the old woman interrupted, and began walking with quick strong young strides. “We will go to my House, the House of Ris.”

  Inside the old house, there was no gold at all. And the outer walls too had remained gray stone. It was an untouched island amid the golden desolation.

  Nadir recognized the strange sensation of immediate intimacy, the feeling of living rushing water. And now he knew whose spirit was within these walls. The same spirit had pulled at him before, had quickened the living waters within him, his very blood, his sweat, his tears—his truth.

  Grandmother sat in the old chair that had belonged to Kharaan, and watched Nadir madly gulp down the water from the large wooden cup she had given him, heedless of his manner.

  “You have grown and learned,” said the old woman, smiling.

  “Oh, yes, Grandmother! I have learned abandon! And that water is more precious than gold!” Nadir gasped between swallows. And when he was done drinking, he again rushed forward to bury his face in her old sunken chest, unashamed of his display of emotion.

  “Good.” Grandmother chuckled, hugging him tight.

  “But—what happened here?” he ventured at last. “What odd blight is this? Why are we and this house the only ones unaffected? And what is the source of this new water? For I’ve seen the well of Livais, and it is dry!”

  “This is Ris’s House, and you are hers
also. You prayed to her, and her blessing rests on you. As for the water—come with me and I will show you.”

  And then Grandmother winked and motioned with her hand. Nadir wordlessly followed. They came outside once more, covering their faces from the blaze. As he walked, Nadir wondered that he could no longer feel the agony of his scalded back. As though the very water that he’d drunk had healed him of the last day’s injuries.

  They walked through Livais, looking about them at the golden statues, at the townspeople frozen in various aspects. At the house of Lord Rigaeh, they paused. The Lord himself stood at the door, frozen to fiery metal, ready to mount a tall pack-beast that was also now a statue. The packs held great filled water flasks that contained water no longer, but shimmering solid metal.

  “Some day, people will return here and marvel at the riches of this place,” Grandmother said. “Eventually it will all be mined and sacked, and there will be no trace of this town, only a memory. The House of Ris alone will stand, a solitary reminder of Golden Livais.”

  At the town gates, Grandmother paused. Nadir noticed their old covered wagon unhitched and abandoned. However, not too far away was their pack-beast, loaded with a bag of supplies, standing idly and looking rather well fed and ready to depart this place. Grandmother led the pack-beast out through the gates, and then handed the reins to him.

  “What are you doing, Grandmother?” Nadir asked with a sudden premonition.

  “Seeing you on your way, of course.” The old one smiled, wrinkles crinkling at the corners of her bright young eyes.

  “But what about Caelqua and you? And what of the water?”

  In reply, Grandmother took his hands and held them tight in her wrinkled own. And then, still holding, she pulled him, and they walked fifty paces through the sand to the place where they had lain hopeless the night before.

  There, in the very spot where Nadir had dug with his bare hands, was a welling of blackness, a rich surfacing of moisture, a large flat spot. Already, a number of snakes and beetles were seen scuttling around.

  Grandmother reached into the folds of her robe and pulled forth the same cup from which he had drunk. She bent forward slowly, and dipped the cup in the sand, and it came away full of bright, slightly muddied liquid. When the liquid settled, they saw water, fine and radiant like crystal, flashing like mirrors of persimmon fire in the sun.

  “This is the new well,” said Grandmother. “And you, my children, have caused it to be. They, the people of Livais, tried to make water from gold, but only gold comes from gold. And thus Ris gave them the truth of what they asked. You alone brought water to Livais, for you sacrificed your very own water—sweat, tears, and blood—and quenched my own thirst when I was most in need. I drank of you, and now you will always drink of me, and never lack for water. Now, take this cup and be on your way—don’t be afraid, it will be full for you always. . . .”

  “But what about you, Grandmother, how will you remain here all alone?” Nadir whispered, receiving the cup, while water welled in his eyes, because he already knew the answer.

  “I will remain, my beloved, because this is my House. And yet I will always be with you, especially when you dream. Just as you will always be here with me. And this well— she is a part of you. . . .”

  “Then you are Ris, the Bringer of Truth and Water!” Nadir exclaimed. But suddenly he felt a pang of a different agony come to him, as his soul broke asunder, and he understood and cried, “This well! Caelqua! Caelqua my sister, what has become of you?”

  In answer, the old woman—or someone else—who had been his Grandmother for so long, only smiled. Ris the Wise, the Just, the Trickster, leaned forward then, and kissed the boy on the brow. And where her lips had touched he felt a seal of warmth, then coolness, like a breath of a faraway ocean.

  He blinked, and Ris was gone like a mirage. All around him stretched only the incandescent desert, while to the back of him stood ajar the bright gates of the town of dead gold. Leading the pack-beast, the boy breathed through his mouth, through his tears, and without ever again looking back, started to cross the desert.

  DREAM THREE

  SAILING THE EYE OF SUN

  My name is Lero, and I am insane.

  No, do not look askance. For I am quite lucid, and can be charming, if the wind blows from the appropriate direction and billows the sails of my ship.

  It is my soul, this ship, the Eye of Sun. Together we have sailed around the Compass Rose seven times over, and have been to shores where the volcanic sand is scorched to ebony by the sun, and to others where ice gathers among grand fjords, and glassy shards float upon cold waters.

  My men have grown accustomed to obeying a woman captain. They no longer favor me with questioning glances, nor do any presume to hesitate upon my orders. Those newly signed on quickly learn the rumors. For rumor has it that it’s wise to fear the look of my eyes. I am insane, they say, for I dare sail anywhere and everywhere. Truth is, I alone know that my ship cannot sink. It has been thus, a sense within me of its secret invincibility, since the moment I first stepped on deck as a stripling cabin boy who was not at all a boy. . . . This, so long ago. That first moment of profundity, when I felt the solid old cedar wood and the creaking timbers beneath the soles of my feet.

  Or maybe that was indeed but my madness speaking from within, this inevitable sense. A link between myself and this floating wooden entity—

  It matters no longer, of course, not now.

  Gods know, I have stories to tell, so many stories that I am bursting. I had once taken my ship on a journey beyond all, where dream meets sea, and delivered a woman as mad as myself to the shores of the isle Amarantea, that does not exist—or obviously exists only for the insane. There I waited for her a full day and night, and then she returned to the ship and the Eye of Sun carried her home. Her eyes were different when she came back to us, no longer vacant, but full of music, and she looked at me and recognized me for a woman at last. . . . And once I granted passage on my ship to a haughty Princess with exotic slanted eyes, dressed in precious silk, and accompanied by a silent stately warrior with skin black as night, and loyal eyes warm with wisdom. Theirs was another story altogether. She called him the “lowest of the low.” And he was sworn to protect her, this goddess with a petulant mouth. And no matter her inconsiderate disdain of his being, I have no doubt he delivered her safely to their destination somewhere in the Eastern desert. . . .

  And now, this. Another story unfolds around me even now.

  I must take this young, impossible, self-important pup to a place where he will become a man. He’s been entrusted to my care by his noble father, in exchange for a mountain of glittering coin, a priceless cargo of fragrant tea and spices, and goods for my men. What could I do but comply?

  After all, insanity draws me.

  And sea salt eats away at cedar wood. Thus, the upper deck of the Eye of Sun has long been in need of a fresh coat of paint.

  Varian Erae stood outside the cabin, letting the wind billow about him in its fullness, lift him a hairsbreadth above the deck floor—or was it only his disparate spirit?—and carry his essence like a gull above the ocean.

  All around, the horizon blurred in vague silver.

  So powerful had the forces grown within him, so discordant, clamoring for release, that Varian’s father, Lord Erae, had no choice but to send his son upon this journey. The young man traveled now to a far place South of the great continent, an unknown shore, where the sages could be found to train him in the proper wielding of the storm within. Ah, he wanted to fly! To let go and soar. . . .

  But he must not. It was forbidden to allow even the tiniest outlet to the forces or he would lose control, the wise ones told him, and he would strike down all, including himself. But Varian knew he could control it already. He used it, this power, in the little things. Like making that weatherbeaten sailor blink yet again unconsciously, as he pulled the ropes. Or letting the wind gently open the creaking door of her cabin to a sliver of darkne
ss and twilight, and thus allowing him a glimpse of her silhouette within, as she stood silently over the map spread out on the table, and the compass needle floating in its bowl.

  He was fascinated with Captain Lero from the start. The fact that she was a woman was revealed only later to him—and him alone, he thought—the longer he stared from the corner of his eye at the tall androgynous form, trying to fathom its very ambiguity. She was flat as a board, this woman. Taller than any he’d ever seen, taller than most men. She wore plain cotton, just like the midshipmen, and a sword linked to her cloth belt. Her hands were large and callused, agile-fingered and once-fair, like dispossessed princes. Her hair, pale as cream ashes, was gathered in a tail, and her skin deeply tanned and weathered. When she had welcomed him onto the ship and discussed the terms with his Lord father, only once had she truly looked at him. Her eyes had been like the haze upon the horizon, of inexplicable hue, and ageless. And they pierced him with the sense of the unknown. Since then, he had watched her, would watch her always. He was searching, he told himself, for a flicker of her insanity.

  Sailors moved about the ship doing their tasks, swung like monkeys from the webwork of roping around the sails and the three masts.

  “You must promise, Captain, to take my son safely across the ocean,” his father had said to her. “Swear that, no matter what, you will place his life before your own, before all else.”

  “I give my word,” she had replied in an earnest voice, watching the great Lord with a steady gaze.

  And Lord Erae knew that was all the reassurance he would get. And yet, knowing her reputation, her impossible sense of honor, he could rest easy. His son was in safe hands, and this ship was, they said, unsinkable as magic.

  The Eye of Sun was a unique hybrid of a galleon and an antique trireme, multi-tiered with complexities of mast and sail, yet punctuated just above water level by rows of closable portholes designed for long mechanical oars that were extended and withdrawn by clockwork, and used exclusively to steer within shallow waters. Upon its main great sail of white canvass was painted a grand golden sun, and within it a dilated human eye—an all-seeing almond with a pupil of azure and lapis blue.