One Realm Beyond (Realm Walkers)

by Donita K. Paul

  Bella hopped, squealed, and clapped her hands. “There’s a stage theater in Bingar.”

  Without waiting for Cantor’s response, the older sister spat out another possibility. “Tommatt?”

  “They’ve a bakery that makes fancy sweets,” said Bella.

  Eddie nodded his approval of baked treats.

  “Gristermeyer?” asked Ella.

  Bella’s eyes grew big. “Three hotels. Three!”

  “Joshnaught?”

  The brother’s thumb came out of his mouth with a pop. “A fire station with a bell. Brrrrring, ding, ding, ding, ding.”

  Cantor had not been to any of these places. He didn’t wish to lower his status as a respected traveler, so he didn’t mention his limited experience of these exciting towns.

  To distract his audience, he nodded toward the farmhouse. “It’s time to introduce me to your parents. It is unseemly for us to chat away when I’m a stranger.”

  All three children laughed.

  Ella snorted and managed to blurt out, “You’re only a little bit strange.”

  The children raced down the dirt lane leading to the grove of trees. Cantor followed with Bridger breathing down his neck.

  “Back off, dragon.”

  Bridger paused a moment, allowing a gap to form so his nose no longer bumped Cantor between the shoulder blades.

  “Good. Thanks.”

  They walked in silence. Far ahead, the children clambered up the steps of their front porch and disappeared into the house.

  Cantor kept walking but threw a question over his shoulder. “What do you have in the saddle bags?”

  The air behind him became suddenly still and heated. He heard and felt a swoosh. Cantor turned to face Bridger. In his arms, the dragon held a rather large cat of an unusual coloring. While the cat was mostly black, with white front paws and a small, neat white bib, tawny gold tipped its perky ears and distinguished tail. Green eyes glittered through shuttered eyes on a black face.

  Bridger stroked the half-asleep feline. “This is my cat. Her name’s Jesha.”

  Cantor looked over his shoulder, but the house was obscured from view by a small shed and tall bushes. He whispered, “You own a cat?”

  Bridger ducked his head closer to Cantor’s. “I don’t know that anyone actually owns a cat. The relationship is more like that of a realm walker and a dragon. Comrades, partners, colleagues, or maybe collaborators, but one does not own the other.”

  Still in hushed tones, Cantor scoffed. “So you have vast familiarity with the liaison between dragon and realm walker, do you?”

  “No, but a lot of experience with Jesha. We’ve been together for four years now.”

  The cat, with eyes closed, lifted her chin, and Bridger obligingly stroked along her jaw and down her neck. A purr rumbled in her chest.

  Cantor grimaced in disgust. “Who ever heard of a realm walker who has a dragon who has a cat? The image is ridiculous.”

  “In the Tales of Bermagot, Bermagot has a dragon who has an owl.”

  Cantor shook his head. “No! Bermagot had a dragon and an owl. Bermagot had the owl.”

  With a smile and a wagging finger, the dragon continued his argument. “Supposition. Anyone knows that a constant is enough companionship for a realm walker. Bermagot had a perfectly good constant so he had no need for an additional friend. The owl was attached to the dragon, not the realm walker.”

  Impatience raised the pitch of Cantor’s tone. “Fine! The owl was not a constant. He was just there. Maybe a traveling companion.”

  Bridger huffed. A small stream of fire escaped his nostrils. Cantor jumped away before the flame singed his jacket.

  Bridger twisted his lips in a moue of disgust before speaking. “Have you not read the Tales of Bermagot? I thought every schoolboy knew the exploits of the great realm walker.”

  Cantor looked out over the pasture. The small windbreak of trees would no longer shield their approach. He wished to get rid of Bridger before anyone saw him in his dragon form. “Of course I’ve read the Tales. I know what he did. He rescued damsels in distress, saved countries being overwhelmed by despots, and built bridges and dams and tunnels for the benefit of the people.”

  “And the Dragon Allmendor and Owl Espin helped. The owl was a constant just as much as the dragon.”

  Cantor refused to turn and look the dragon in the eye. “I believe that a dragon is not a constant until he has been called by the realm walker. Therefore the owl was not a constant unless called. And why would Bermagot call an owl when he already had a dragon?”

  Bridger did not respond. A press of cold air, a stillness, and then a swoosh.

  Cantor turned. The dragon and cat were gone, but so was the horse.

  He hissed through his teeth. “Bridger? Bridger? Where are you?”

  “Why are you whispering?”

  Cantor took a moment to recognize Eddie, standing beside the bushes with his face and hands clean, a fresh set of clothes, and no thumb in his mouth.

  “Because we didn’t want to wrangle at the top of our voices. Shouting matches are not proper.”

  The boy looked around. “We?”

  “The warhorse and I.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s not mine, so he went away.” Cantor hoped he had gone for good.

  “You were shouting with a horse?”

  “Not literally; it’s a manner of speech. I shouted. The horse made various horsey noises.”

  Eddie scanned the area once more, shrugged, and slowly shook his head back and forth.

  Cantor took the same serious study of his surroundings. Where was Bridger? Where was the cat? He spotted the gold-tipped ears. Ah, in the tree, the tree that had not been a part of the windbreak minutes ago. “Mama says to come.” Eddie trotted down the lane without checking to see if the guest followed.

  Cantor’s stomach gurgled as he strolled behind the boy. For one, Ahma and Odem had drilled into him that he and the rest of the walkers were gentlemen who did not fail to show up after accepting an invitation. Two, realm walkers tried to integrate with the local populace to gain insight into the current conditions of the realm. And three, he didn’t want to miss a meal.

  His only concern was this bright-eyed boy and his family might be too curious. Though he could handle any prying questions. And Bridger might get impatient and go away. That would be a plus. The horse dragon was sure to be a nuisance.

  Eddie stopped and turned. “Horses can’t talk. Did you know dragons can talk? It was in a book. Ella read it to me.”

  The realm walker gave his young companion a searching glance. “I haven’t seen many dragons. You?”

  “Not even one.”

  Cantor disguised his relief and sounded legitimately sympathetic. “That’s sad.”

  Eddie stuck his hands into his pockets and skipped a couple of steps before walking. “If Bridger was a dragon instead of a warhorse, would you let me ride him?”

  “You think riding a dragon would be safer than riding a warhorse?”

  Eddie turned to walk backward as he grinned at Cantor. “No. That’s why I want to try.”

  FINE AND DANDY MEAL

  A long, broad table crowded one side of a wraparound porch. Assorted benches and old wooden chairs surrounded it. The smells coming through the open windows made Cantor’s mouth water.

  An older girl with a kerchief over her long blonde hair and an apron over her pink flowered dress pushed through the screen door with large bowls of food. Cantor bounded up the plank steps to take them from her.

  She looked startled, then gave up her burden with a smile. “My name’s Tifra Means. I’m the eldest daughter.”

  With his hands full, he could only nod a formal greeting. “Cantor D’Ahma, at your service.”

  She laughed and slipped back through the door.

  Cantor put the bowls down and lifted the cloths covering them to peek at the contents. Mashed potatoes and creamed corn. He licked his lips, anticipating a meal
as grand as the community suppers down at the village near his home. He hadn’t often visited the village, a result of Ahma’s rules for untrained realm walkers. His favorite part of venturing into civilization was the food. Ahma’s cooking was tasty but repetitive. He’d probably eaten more corn and mushroom swatch than any raccoon on the plane.

  He glanced around, wondering where the pesky Bridger had settled. The warhorse sat in the shade of the appleton trees. Dragons looked comfortable sitting; the warhorse looked awkward. He had his head turned away from the humans as if he deliberately shunned the activity on the porch since it didn’t include him. The cat Jesha rested, curled comfortably beside the tree. Bridger, with his head tilted up, watched the flower-laden branches of the trees.

  The awkward situation bothered Cantor. Should he claim the horse? Ask for feed? Reveal to the family that Bridger was a dragon? This was Effram. Surely there was some protocol for dealing with new acquaintances when one was a dragon and the other human. But Bridger held the form of the horse. Did he not want to be recognized as a mor dragon? If so, what was his purpose?

  The door swung open again. Three young women and the mother streamed out, chattering and giggling. They carried more food and set their dishes in a row down the center of the table. At the same time, a group of men rounded the corner of the house. Their heavy boots thudded on the wooden steps as they joined the people on the porch. The younger family members rushed to their seats and stood at attention behind a chair or bench.

  Tifra motioned Cantor to a seat next to hers. She smiled at him as he came to stand beside her and nodded toward the man at the head of the table.

  “My father,” she whispered.

  Tifra indicated another man. “My grandfather.” As the older man began a prayer to Primen, she dutifully lowered her gaze to her folded hands.

  The porch erupted with noise two seconds after the patriarch of the family said, “Amen.”

  Chairs and benches scraped across the floor. Voices that had respectfully remained silent bubbled up in chatter. Cantor sat next to Tifra and became part of the passing of large bowls and platters of food.

  “Welcome to our table, young traveler,” called Mr. Means from his end of the table.

  Evidently bad manners did not include shouting. “Thank you for having me, sir,” Cantor yelled back.

  “I am Tifra’s mother,” said the lady across from him. “Our family receives you and the blessing you bring to us through your presence.”

  Cantor pondered for a moment what words of greeting would be appropriate.

  “You are gracious in your hospitality.”

  Two boys snorted their laughter. Apparently, Cantor had not chosen well. He’d try again.

  “I appreciate the hands that have brought this bounty from field and pasture to your kitchen and to the table.”

  The same two boys bent toward each other and snickered. Cantor wished they’d just give him the line instead of enjoying his embarrassment. Tifra pinched the one sitting next to her, and a sister on the other side of the boys pinched the one beside her.

  The mischievous boys sat up straight, but their shoulders shook from suppressed laughter, their faces burnt red, and their mouths twisted in a thin-line, twitching grimace.

  The heavy dishes still moved around the table, handed from one person to the next. Cantor’s plate overflowed, and he passed the next plate without spooning out a serving. Though he hadn’t tasted anything, he swallowed, trying to dislodge his chagrin at not being able to come up with a courteous reply.

  “Didn’t I say I would be useful?” Bridger’s voice whispered through Cantor’s mind.

  He sat up straighter and leaned slightly so he could see around Goodwife Means to the warhorse under the tree. Bridger remained in the same position. Again his voice interrupted Cantor’s thoughts.

  “Say to the goodwife, ‘Primen blesses us all. I thank you for sharing the blessing. Primen multiplies this good thing.’ ”

  Cantor repeated the three sentences.

  Goodwife Means relaxed, a warm smile came over her face, and she and Tifra sighed in unison.

  The goodwife dipped her head, acknowledging his words, and said, “All good things come from Primen.”

  “You’re out of the mire now,” said Bridger with a chuckle.

  “Can you hear me?” asked Cantor without speaking.

  “Yes, I can hear you. I can hear everything you hear. I can see everything you can see. This should prove to you that I am, indeed, your constant, your friend, and your comrade for life.”

  Cantor spooned warm, buttery potatoes into his mouth. While he savored them, he answered the dragon sitting under the appleton trees. “Oh, no. I haven’t consented to any such thing. I appreciate your help in this instance, but don’t make too much of it. I have other plans. We must part ways.”

  Bridger muttered one word. “Stubborn.”

  Mr. Means, the grandfather, gave an approving nod to his son. Mr. Means, the father, passed the nod to his wife. She smiled, pleased about something Cantor could not decipher. No tension marred the gathering around the table. He figured the silent communication must have been over a family issue.

  The men ignored him and ate with little interaction between them. The food refueled them and gave them an excuse to be off their feet for a while. But their attitude showed they had no time for socializing. The children ate, chattered, and played at the table. No one bid them to mind their manners, eat more, talk less, or be still.

  Only Goodwife Means kept up a conversation with Cantor. She asked questions, and to thwart her, Cantor began asking his questions first. The tactic kept his hostess occupied and his secrets safe.

  The meal was soon over, and the men vacated the porch with the same speed and noise that had heralded their arrival.

  Goodwife Means took the plates from Tifra as she helped clear the table. “Go. Show the young traveler around the farm.”

  Tifra grinned and scooted around the table, heading for the steps. Cantor followed. They headed toward the barn first. Tifra took off her kerchief, finger-combed her hair, then divided the long golden blonde tresses into sections. She braided her hair as they walked.

  “My family raises goats and cows.”

  Cantor glanced around. “I don’t see goats or cattle.”

  “We have to hide them.”

  “Where can you possibly hide a herd of cattle?”

  Tifra pointed toward the western horizon. “Beyond our land, the territory is riddled with ravines. Ever seen a pokematt tree?”

  “In a book.”

  “Well, in person, it stinks, and if you touch it, you get poked. The matted appearance is due to long thorns and closely woven branches. Cows and goats don’t mind the smell and don’t get caught in the branches. Pokematts are a cross between a bush and a tree, and they cover acres of the rocky fields. Both the cattle and goats hide in the shrub-flats and wander in and out of the ravines.”

  “Who are you hiding them from?”

  Tifra gave Cantor an incredulous look. “The King’s Guard, of course. You must be from far away if you aren’t troubled by the King’s Guard.”

  Cantor waved his hand in the general direction of the east and upward, since Dairine was higher in the stack of planes than Effram. He would be able to tell the truth and at the same time not reveal he was a realm walker from a different plane. “Mountains. Our home is nestled among some fairly rough mountains.”

  “And the guards don’t come through, taking what they can, claiming that the king requires samples of the harvest?”

  Cantor shook his head, wondering how he would talk his way around her suspicion. “We haven’t had a king’s representative in our village for likely two generations, maybe three if you count the babies born last fall. You see, our community was quarantined a hundred years ago, and we lost touch with the valley people.” He spread his hands in a gesture of ignorance. “I suppose the guard assumed we’d died out when no one came down from the mountains to trade.�
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  “Until you?”

  Cantor thought she looked half-convinced, so he continued his tale of half-truth. He smiled with confidence. There was a village in quarantine on Effram. Isolating an area of sickness was common among all the realms. One of his directives from Odem was to visit there and bring back a report. “Oh, scouts have ventured forth and brought back news that the people are better off separated from the rest of Effram.”

  “And you’re a scout?”

  “Not exactly.”

  They had reached the barn. Tifra led them through the massive doors into the cool interior. Another door stood open at the back of the huge structure. The smells and sounds of animals indicated the various stalls held occupants.

  Cantor didn’t wrinkle his nose, but he wondered if he should tell Tifra Ahma’s secret for keeping her stalls sweet-smelling even in the winter. The herb she used might not even exist on this plane. And most of the problem was solved by his constant attention to cleaning the stalls.

  For a moment he allowed himself concern for Ahma. Her age kept her from strenuous labor. Odem vowed he would stick closer and enjoy her wonderful meals as he practiced being retired. But Odem had the wanderlust, and he had left a glass eye in many places where he worked in spite of the Realm Walkers Council. In his younger years, Cantor had believed the glass eye phrase literally. It took many visits from the traveling man for the young realm walker to understand the glass eyes were people loyal to Odem.

  Cantor brought his attention back to Tifra as she went from stall to stall and pointed out baby pigs, a colt with a wrapped leg, a few sheep, and a nest of newborn kittens.

  “A snake bit the colt, so we have him in here until Pa is certain he is well. The pigs go in and out of the wooden flaps that are open to their sty. The sheep will be brought in for the hot hours in the afternoon.”

  “Will the King’s Guard confiscate these animals?”

  “Many of them, along with much of the grain we grow and part of our fruit, chickens, and ducks. They even took one of Pa’s herding dogs one time. That really made the menfolk grumble. I thought my brothers might sneak into the camp and steal the dog back, but my uncles talked some sense into them. Better to lose a dog to those scoundrels than have a son pressed into service and lost to the family for ten years.”