Finding Destiny

by Jean Johnson

  Once they were on top of the roof, all three of them could see the silvery gray streaks in the distance, drifting like slanted veils. They could even smell the cool, musty odor of the approaching rain. Chanson pointed over Jimeyon’s shoulder, giving him a lesson in weather-reading. “See that? How the rain-veils drift to the east with the wind?”

  He squinted, thought, and nodded. “Yes. It looks ... it looks like it might miss some of the village lands. It’s going more to the east than southeast, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, and it’ll miss slightly more than half,” dyara Kedle stated. “I will call half of the clouds to the south. Your job, Jimeyon, will be to open yourself up to the clouds and spin the water over the village into the collectors.” She nodded at the sloped tubs lining the temple roof. “Make sure you do not miss.”

  Each of the rectangular-mouthed bins led down to one of the four cisterns carved in the bedrock beneath the village. There were drains in the roof which also led to the cistern caves, but those would pick up whatever dust had been tracked across the roof, forcing them to purify the murky turbidity such contamination would cause. These tiled collectors were carefully patched and grouted every summer to get them ready for the rains. There were other collectors somewhat like these ones out in the fields, tall inverted cones that funneled rainwater into storage caverns for later irrigation needs. Those collectors weren’t kept as immaculately clean, but then the ones here in the village were for the villagers themselves.

  “Chanson, you will monitor how much water falls on the fields and how much is being collected. You will siphon off whatever excess the dyarina cannot yet handle.”

  “Yes, reverend,” Chanson said.

  “Now, why do we only call half of the clouds?” Kedle prompted their young apprentice. “And why do we only wring out of them what they are willing to give?”

  “Because the rains belong to everybody, including the other villages that would have been in their path farther along,” he replied promptly.

  “Good lad. I will summon the rains, now,” Kedle warned them. Lifting her arms, draped in their dark blue thawa sleeves, she started humming to herself and began making beckoning, almost clawing gestures with her hands. The clouds started to roil.

  Mindful of her duties, Chanson reached out with her own powers, extending her mind to the north. The churning of the clouds being divided were causing the droplets inside of them to grow larger and fall faster, heavier. She quickly caught the excess, cupping her hands and turning on her heel.

  Like most of the younger women of the village, she was clad in a blouse and gathered skirts instead of the one-piece thawa. Her hem floated outward as she began her spin-trance, echoing in sky blue the way the silvery curtains of falling rain now twisted and spun. On the top of the temple and far out to the north, the two of them danced, her in her skirts and the rain in its veil. Diverting the excess into the nearest field collectors, Chanson slowed and tapered off her efforts as the clouds finished parting.

  Now the rain that fell wasn’t excessive, though it was enough to darken the ground visibly even at this distance. She judged it enough to water the fields and orchards without threatening anything; it was time to let nature and the careful pulling of the reverend dyara handle the matter. Waiting for the clouds to reach the village gave her enough time to slip between two collector bins and peer over the edge of the temple wall. From up here, she could see into Falkon’s courtyard, and could tell that the chickens had been fed and the filly groomed.

  The young girl now swept the courtyard stones, while the boy ... well, Chanson couldn’t see where he was, but she knew the foreigner had bartered with their mother for chores out of them in exchange for teaching them to read and write once the busy planting season was over and the more leisurely weeding season began. All of the mothers and fathers had agreed to the bargain, after the reverend dyara Kedle had examined his writing skills in Sundaran and pronounced them more than adequate for the task.

  The elderly woman had declared her fingers too gnarled and stiff with dyara’s disease to teach the children, while Chanson would be busy teaching their dyarina how to walk through the fields and gauge the water needs of all the various plants and animals this season. Someone needed to teach the villagers the basics, and the foreigner needed to build up a source of wealth for himself, not just tend Falkon’s farm in the would-be warrior’s absence.

  Despite the way the clouds darkened the late afternoon light, Eduor himself was easily discernible, his loose golden curls a match for the yellow decorating his green thawa. He had brought the filly’s dam out of the shadows of the stables and was brushing her now; the donkeys who had pulled the plow through the tough soil had already been retired for the day and were no doubt groomed, fed, and drowsing in their stalls.

  Who would’ve thought a Mandarite nobleman could be such a conscientious farmer? He pampers even the chickens, laying straw to catch their guano and cleaning their house every few days. Despite all the things the village could have held against him, his rank, his nationality, his unfamiliarity with Sundaran ways, he was earning the respect of her people. And he’s earning my respect, too.

  Kedle cleared her throat. Pulling her attention back to the task at hand, Chanson moved away from the edge of the roof. The clouds had moved close enough that Jimeyon would need to begin shortly. That meant monitoring him and his efforts with her instinctive awareness of the water heading their way.

  I think I should tell him that he’s earning our respect, she decided, getting ready to coach and praise her young apprentice. Like I do with Jimeyon, here. It won’t hurt him to know we think he’s doing alright, and as I was the one who first welcomed him, if a bit tartly, I should be the one to let him know he is welcome among us. Especially now that his Arbran friend is gone and he is alone. And I did treat him roughly when he first arrived.

  Yes, he needs to know we are warming up to him now.

  Several weeks later, tired from channeling the latest, late autumn storm and its worrisome lightning, Chanson found herself distracted by a burst of laughter from somewhere beyond the temple walls. Leaving Jimeyon to assist dyara Kedle down the steps, she crossed to the edge of the roof and leaned over the waist-high parapet.

  There, on the street leading into the village, walked a very muddy, very bedraggled figure. It was so muddy, Chanson had to look twice even to realize what the gender was, let alone the identity. When she did, she winced. Poor Eduor! He has so much quiet dignity, but everyone is pointing and laughing at him now.

  The voice of one of the younger men who hadn’t left with Falkon floated up to her on the wall. “I think he’s trying to make himself look like one of us!”

  Someone else called out, “Hey, Eduor—you missed a few spots!” and a third, a grandmother, lifted her hands as she cried, “—You’re supposed to leave your palms pale, not the back of your hands, boy!” and that set the rest of them laughing even harder.

  Even Chanson felt the urge to giggle. It was quickly stifled by the silent not-smile Eduor gave in reply, and the stiff way he continued up the street, limping toward the temple. Toward the bathing halls, in specific. I think he’s hurt, she realized. Not just by their jokes, but physically hurt, too. I should get downstairs to see if he needs tending. Not to mention find out what happened to him.

  Now that the latest storm was over, the wind was beginning to pick up; from the heat carried in the breeze, she knew it was the meltimi, the hot, dry wind that signaled the start of the winter season. Not that winter in Sundara was anything more than a convenience of language; it simply meant the cooler of the two local dry seasons, with spring and autumn bringing the few but necessary rains.

  She was a good enough water-caller that neither she, nor her apprentice, nor the reverend dyara had gotten wet. The same could not be said for the land outside the village walls. With the planting season nearly over, the trio had diverted some of the water into the cisterns, but had let the rain pound the ground; the roots of their crops
were firmly established, and it never hurt to let the soil soak up the last of the rains this late in the season. Early on, the rain wouldn’t penetrate the too-dry soil and would only run off into the wadis of the desert, but now, the ground was quite moist.

  Muddy, even. Taking herself downstairs, Chanson headed into the men’s side of the bathing hall. Normally women weren’t allowed in there, nor were men allowed in the women’s side, but there were exceptions to the rule. Infants and toddlers were kept with whatever parent brought them to the baths, obviously, at least until they were old enough to be trusted with bathing themselves. The priesthood and the dyara, by the right of their calling and their training as village priests and healers, could also enter either side at need.

  And I see that he needs me, Chanson thought the moment she caught sight of Eduor trying to ease his shirt over his head, his every movement slow, stiff, and accompanied by little grunts of discomfort.

  The garment was a gift from one of the older women in the village, who had hired him to write a letter to one of her sons in another village. The ink and paper had come from the temple, and normally it would have been handled by the reverend dyara, but old Marna had taken pity on the foreigner in their midst, promising him a set of tunic and trews. Such things were easier to farm in than an ankle-length thawa, and less odd-looking than the fitted hose and side-slit tunic he had arrived in. Not to mention more colorful than the bland pastels favored by the forest-dwelling Natallians far to the south.

  However, the red and purple fabric, re-dyed back to cheery brightness, was all but hidden under the brown mud coating nearly every inch of the garment. It clung to his skin, and whatever had caused him to roll on the ground left his body visibly wincing with each move.

  “Here, let me help you,” Chanson offered, hurrying forward. He grunted in surprise and twisted, peering at her through the tangled opening of the neck hole. She bit back a smile at his wary look. “I think you have injured yourself. Was it a fall in the mud? Or several, to be so thoroughly muddy, both front and back?”

  “Donkeys,” he grunted, struggling somewhat gingerly to pull his head free. Chanson quickly helped peel the damp, dirty cloth from his back, pulling it over his equally muddy scalp. He straightened with a rough sigh, arms still tangled in the fabric but head and torso free. “I was bringing them back in when the rains started falling heavily ... and then lightning struck a nearby tree.”

  “Why didn’t you bring them in when the rains began?” Chanson asked, helping to peel the sleeves down his arms as well. The state of his arms, smeared with mud despite the cloth that had supposedly protected him, made her suck in a breath. “Ouch! Where did you get all these scratches? And those bruises!”

  “I was trying to churn up the soil so the rain could penetrate deeper. It’s the northeast field, the one that dries up too fast because it’s too hard. Obado told me about the trick, and his fields aren’t much worse off than mine ... than Falkon’s,” Eduor corrected himself. “But the stupid beasts bolted, and my hands tangled in the reins. I was yanked off my feet and dragged halfway across the field, this way and that, before they darted to the side and flung me straight into the bushes. The acacia bushes,” he added wryly.

  That explained the scratches, of course; acacia bushes produced acacia gum, which could be used for many things, from a kind of edible resin to a binding agent for things like ink and glue. The trees were also known for their nasty inch-long thorns, which made them great for bordering vegetable fields, since it discouraged wildlife from pushing through to get at the succulent food.

  Eduor lifted one elbow enough to peer at his suntanned arm. “The bruises ... well, they do hurt, and they’ll continue to hurt, but it just looks worse since I’m so fair compared to you. The scratches sting worse, right now.”

  “Yes, you’ll need to get them cleaned up. You were right to come here,” Chanson told him. “Let me help you get the rest of your things off, then you go shower the mud away and scrub everything. I’ll bring some ointments for those scratches, so they don’t become infected. I think Kedle has some herbs that can be used as a poultice on the worst of those bruises.”

  He kept the muddied tunic close to his chest. “Uh ...”

  “Come on, everything off, Eduor. I am a healer as well as a dyara and priestess. Aside from your pretty hair and your pale skin, you won’t have anything new for me to see,” she reminded him. When he continued to hesitate, she added tartly, “Either you remove it or I’ll ask some of the other men to remove it for you. Acacia scratches are nothing to trifle with, and I will see you cleaned and doctored.”

  That seemed to render him even more tense.

  “You’re not afraid of healers, are you?” she asked, puzzled by his reluctance.

  He winced. “It’s ... not that. It’s just ...”

  “Just, what?” Chanson asked, beyond puzzled. Hands going to her hips, uncaring that she was getting her own clothes dirty, she cocked her head. “If you don’t tell me what’s wrong, how can I help you?”

  His blue eyes, so different from the brown she was used to seeing, remained fixed on his tunic. “... I don’t like being ordered around by a woman.”

  Disgusted, she sighed heavily. And here I thought he was telling us the truth ... Eduor looked up quickly, eyes wide.

  “No! Not like ... I told you, I don’t believe in the Mandarite philosophies of male superiority anymore,” he asserted, though he clutched the muddied tunic to his scratched and bruised chest a little tighter. “I just ... I have bad memories of being ordered around by ... women. When I was a war-slave.”

  That only confused her further. “Eduor, I have seen you being ordered around by the women of this village! Did you or did you not agree quite readily and willingly to help Mama Jakika get that old hen off her roof, the one she wanted to roast for her daughter’s birthing-day feast? And didn’t you agree to help Salosi carry her wet laundry to the drying lines while her husband tended to their son’s scraped knees?”

  “That was clothed!” he protested, clutching—no, spreading the tunic over his naked chest.

  She still didn’t get it. “I don’t understand. Aren’t war-slaves ordered to do all sorts of things? Manual labor and the like?”

  He looked away from her. “My first ... owner . . . yes. I picked fruit and harvested grain, hauled wood, and took things to market. I was worked like an ox. And I was beaten like an ox. Then I heard this woman in the marketplace trying to say something in Sundaran, only the way she said it was almost a deadly insult to the other merchant, so I stepped in and explained things, and she ... Midalla was so impressed, once she learned how fluent I was, she bought me from my first owner. She promised me she wouldn’t beat me if I served as her interpreter so that she could expand her trade relations with this kingdom. But ... there are worse things than beatings.”

  Chanson hadn’t thought of her life in Oba’s Well as having been sheltered. Her training as dyara, healer, and priestess had included ways to recognize and deal with all manner of injuries, abuses, and troubles. But the things he seemed to be hinting at made her blush with discomfort.

  “Did she force herself on you? Can a woman even do that to a man?” she asked.

  “She denied me food if I didn’t ... please her, first. Nearly every Gods-be-damned meal.” He wrinkled his muddied nose. The heat of the meltimi winds outside had begun to penetrate the shaded depths of the bathing hall, drying the mud and making it crumble. He brushed awkwardly at the side of his nose, spreading more of the dirt around rather than brushing it away.

  Chanson shook her head. “You don’t sound very enthusiastic, and if a man cannot retain enough enthusiasm, well, how could you have pleased her that way?”

  “Not my ... not that,” he denied, shaking his head. “She said she was too old for that. Too old, period, if you asked me. But nobody did.” A shudder rippled through him and he closed his eyes. “No, she wanted the other thing.”

  “What other thing?” Chanson asked. “I
f she didn’t want you to couple with her, and didn’t ask it of you, and if you wouldn’t have been able to anyway out of sheer disgust ... I’m sorry, Eduor, but I don’t understand.”

  Opening his eyes, Eduor drew in a deep breath to brace himself, then stuck out his tongue. The tip dangled below his jaw for a moment, then he curled it up until the tip reached the middle of his nose. Not quite to the bridge of it, but definitely curling over the point of his nose by a thumb-width. He retracted it with a grimace as Chanson stared.

  Noise from outside broke their tableau. Blinking, she cleared her throat. “... Well. Rest assured I won’t order you to do that for me. Not unless you want it, of course.”

  That earned her another wide-eyed stare, but two of the village men entered the bathing hall at that moment. Grateful for the interruption, and for the sun-dark skin of her tribe that hid the flushed state of her cheeks, Chanson changed the subject back to the one at hand. Right now was not the time to explain—even to herself—why she had said such a thing.

  “You need to finish stripping off your clothes and bathe every inch in the showers. Since you are injured, and do not intend to use the mikwah bath, you don’t have to confess your sins first. Not that I think you have any to confess,” she added, hoping he caught on to the subtle message in her words, that his suffering at the hands of his Natallian owner wasn’t a sin in her eyes. “I’d also like to send Jimeyon to help you bathe. It’s about time he took some of his lessons in the theory of healing injuries and started applying them in the practicality of it. I’ll go fetch him, and the salve for your scratches, then see what we have on hand for making bruise poultices—oh, the donkeys, where are they?”

  “They snapped the traces when the plow tangled in the acacia bushes. Last I saw them, they were browsing in the olive orchard north of the field I was in,” Eduor admitted, relaxing enough to lower the wadded protection of his tunic a little. “The last time the female got loose, she came back by nightfall. I hurt too much to chase after them right away, so I figured they’d come back in by then. If not, I’d go looking in the morning.”