“I feel like a fool,” said Maran. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I thought that I could make a difference. I thought that I could make things better for you and the folks around here.”
“Making things better is more futile than it looks,” Altyn advised her. “I know something about that.”
“The vodie is going to report this to somebody.”
“Never mind that. It happens. I'' inform the neighbors. Experience demonstrates that the Kurfurstin Mother will close the food bank for three days. If we are diligent, we can get by. Fasting is good for the soul.”
“I didn’t mean to make people go hungry. Now I really feel like a fool.”
“You're the farmer. Don’t complain to me. Do something about it.”
The steady rain continued through the night, dripping into bowls about the room. Try as she might, Maran tossed and turned as she couldn't sleep. Her inner light shone too brightly. Slipping out of bed, she dressed, then crept out of the house.
Maran explored her way through the alleys of her neighborhood, finding every garden that she could. She made things grow. Fewer people would go hungry because of her foolishness. If the Ironmongers would not feed them, then the Loam must.
Just as predawn lit the gray skies, showing that the rain was done and the sun would soon impart its life to a wearied land, Maran slipped into Altyn’s garden to see Zebra, sitting like a crow on the stoop, idly eating hot peppers and drinking coal oil.
“These peppers are good, dragon bones. Did you really just grow all this in a few days?”
Unwilling to repeat her last conversation with Zebra, Maran relaxed herself. She settled herself down into the muddy garden, making it grow. “Yes, I grew all of this.”
“You got bagged and beaten.”
Maran rubbed her bruises. “Yes. Some drifters got me.”
“I asked around. Folks say it was Reckoners.”
The name did not mean anything to Maran. “Who are Reckoners?”
“Dwarves. You know them. They say ‘reckon’ a lot. They don’t like drifters. They don’t like Loam. They think that you caused all the problems. Once they take power, they’ll get rid of the problems, and the Union will be great again, which means fighting yet another losing war against the Malachites. They are very close to doing it, too. A little political derring-do, and they can win a majority.”
Zebra’s comment brought to mind that Ironmonger from Sureh. What was his name? It didn’t matter. He said ‘reckon’ a lot. He had that silly idea that he would become lord of the territory. That fact gave Maran a sober moment of reflection.
“If they wanted to kill me, why am I alive?”
“The kitten does not kill right away, but it learns. Have you ever seen a young cat with a bird? It catches the bird, then settles back, happy with its catch. It then gets bored and prods the bird, making it fly away, but before the bird can fly, the cat catches it again. It does this over and over until the bird is broken and can no longer fly and cat sits there disappointed that its toy no longer works.”
Irritated by the reply, Maran stated, “I don’t like your stories. They are horrible.”
“Those are the best kind,” he responded. “You never know how they will end. I will give you a hint about my stories: the characters are always the same, it’s just the plot that changes, but it’s usually the same, too.”
Before Maran could think of a response to that statement, Zebra followed up with a question, “Dragon bones, the curious want satisfaction, and that satisfaction is an answer. Why would the Reckoners beat up a cook shopping for food?”
“The food is old. It’s several years old. I went poking around, trying to find something out.
“I’ve had all night to think about it. The best explanation that I can figure is that the Ironmongers are diverting huge amounts food, but I don’t know why or where. None of it makes sense. I keep thinking of explanations, but none of them work. If they are shorting the drifters, nobody cares, so why hide it? So it must be something that the Union wouldn’t like, but what sort of thing could that be? I don’t know. I really need to chew on this some more.”
Zebra took a long drink of coal oil, draining the bottle. He tossed it into one corner where it landed with many other such bottles among the weeds. “Once you find the right thing to chew on, dragon bones, you will find your eyes wide open. You will be gifted with insight, but insight only grants you more questions.”
“Why are you so contrary?”
Zebra turned away from Maran, gesturing toward the horizon. “My mistress of the Burning Heart throws fire at the sky.” At that moment, exactly where he pointed, the clouds drifted apart and sunlight burst through, setting the dawn ablaze.
“Tell me a story,” he said. “Tell me a Loam story and I shall tell you an elf story.”
That seemed odd, but it also seemed fair enough.
Maran chose the most important story of all. “A long time ago, when we lived near the city of Aq, there was a woman named Hawa who was married to the iron smith. One day, Hawa got pregnant from the clay, and soon brought forth wondrous things from her womb, such as plates and cups and bowls. She gave these things to her neighbors and all were greatly happy. However, the smith's soon grew irate as nobody came to buy their wares. Fearing for their livelihood, the other smiths went to the iron smith and convinced him to kill his wife, for she was the youngest of his wives and had not yet borne children. However, these smiths did not invite the goldsmith, the silver smith, or the copper smith, as they were righteous men and would not tolerate such conniving.
“The iron smith went to the Red Lady, asking for some way to kill Hawa. For this deed, the Red Lady grew a new flower, red like herself, filled with sleep. She called it the poppy, and gave it to the smith, who brewed a tea with it.
“The next day, the iron smith told his wife, ‘Hawa, we must find more iron.’ So they went out prospecting for iron, and while they wandered the hidden places, he gave Hawa the tea, and she fell into sleep. As she slept, the ironsmith dug a deep pit and tossed her in, burying her alive.
“In time, the neighbors missed Hawa. They asked the ironsmith about Hawa, but he feigned ignorance. Eventually the people grew so concerned that they dared to visit the White Lady. They asked, ‘We can't find Hawa who gave us such wonderful things. Why have you taken her?’
“Now, White Lady had not taken her, as was her right, so she looked high and low for Hawa, but she could not find her. However, in her travels, she noticed many new plants. She found carrots, and noted that they were Hawa’s fingers. She found eggplant, and noted that they were Hawa’s brains. She found potatoes, and noted that they were Hawa’s eyeballs. She found beets, and noted that they were Hawa’s heart. And above an unmarked grave, she found poppies.
“The White Lady assembled the smiths and showed them the pieces of Hawa. ‘You have done a terrible thing. Never again shall you know the forge or the bellows.’ The White Lady turned the smiths into ogres, forever expelling them from town. As for the ironsmith, she transformed him into a horse, along with all his wives and children, sentencing them to labor forever. As the people no longer had smiths, the White Lady taught them Hawa’s secrets of pottery so that they might never need smiths again. 'Never again will one of mine be buried alive.'
“When these deeds were done, the White Lady made an idol of herself from the finest porcelain. She gave it to her people as a sign of her favor. As long as the statue remained with them, her favor would be upon them, and she would pass them by.
As if the light had ignited him, Zebra turned back to Maran and spoke. “I shall return in kind. Hear and listen, and listen and learn, for what happened in the beginning is what happened in the beginning, and all things now come to build upon those things that came first. In the reaches of time where time was always and always was time, the poets wrote the first epic. As the poets wrote, searching for the rhyme and the rhythm and the right, the gods played bones, tumbling them upon the desolate earth. Sev
en times seven the knucklebones rolled, and seven times seven the lots were set. Their prize was the carcass of the first dragon, who dared rise up against the gods and now lay twisted upon the earth. The gods chose. Iron had the first choice, but he also had the last. For his first choice, he took the dragon’s blazing heart, terrible and beautiful and unopposable. The other gods then picked, each taking something valuable, until at last there was naught but bones. So Iron took those bones and he made a new people from them, a cross between Iron’s might and a dragon’s greed, and he called them dwarves. He taught them the secrets of fire and iron, and the world has known woe ever since.”
Maran glared at Zebra. “And that’s why I’m dragon bones?”
“No, that’s why you’re doomed to bring iron and fire and woe into this world.”
“What about men?”
“The gods found them hiding in the roots of the One True Tree. They are a mystery even to the philosophers.”
“I see. So what about elves?”
“During the great battle, the dragon slammed into the tree called the True Tree, splintering its base, scattering its sap upon the earth, and those drops became elves. As the tree fell, seeds fell from its branches, twirl, twirl, twirl. Some of those seeds fell onto holy ground, and those became the Great Trees. So we were brothers to the Great Trees, and those Great Trees were our brothers, and we all lived in grace until it all burned in unquenchable fire, down to the deepest root.”
Zebra stood for a moment in thought, as if remembering. “I jumped. I burned. I embraced the Queen of the Burning Heart.”
Expecting something more, Maran waited for more comments, but none came. Lost in some consuming thought, Zebra walked down the alley, straight into the rising sun.
Maran watched for a while, sighed, then walked into the kitchen where Altyn sat. “I don’t understand Zebra?! Can you explain him to me?”
Altyn sighed. “He is difficult to explain. The elves, all the elves, are a strange people. All their gods are dead. The only goddess that they have left is Passion, the Burning Heart, Queen of Fire. Thus, everything an elf does is dominated by Passion and mitigated by nothing. This passion is even more extreme among those elves that directly serve the Burning Heart, and those are the Schan, and Zebra is a Schan.”
“So he just hangs around and you put up with him and his madness?”
“He is vexatious, not mad. Aside from that, he keeps the riffraff out.”
“What do you mean? I thought that he was the riffraff.”
Altyn sighed, shaking her head. She thought for a moment, then began explaining, “We don’t have a proper government here, Maran. We may have the Outer Authority. Other than feeding us, they really don’t do us any good. They march in, punish anyone who competes with the Ironmongers, then leave. As you might imagine, that lack of authority leaves us fighting among ourselves. Our real politics are dominated by criminals, ethnic gangs, religious cults, and vigilantes. When someone threatens violence upon us, we need someone who can deliver violence back. That is Zebra.
“Zebra is a rooster of sorts. He defends his flock from threats, whether we like it or not. When an unsavory gang tries to move into this street, he tracks down that gang and kills its leader. In that way, Zebra is a precise, methodical, and merciless murderer. Fortunately, he is a murderer for us, not against us.”
Maran shook her head in horror. “I don’t see how you can allow this!”
“Allow? I allow nothing. I shall repeat myself. We have no government. Chairman Svero executed our government after the last uprising and put us under martial law. We have no rights, no judges, no nobles, no elections, and no recourse. Our only choice is rebellion, and you and I both know that we would lose. No, our lack of government is your responsibility. Why do you allow this?”
“We are occupied as well! How can we be responsible?”
“Then put your righteousness aside. Stop expecting the impossible.”
The Nightmare Sickness
Having no more stomach for more arguments, Maran climbed the creaking stairs to her bed. She removed her wet clothes, hung them across the windowsill to dry, and surrendered herself to deep sleep as the morning breeze blew the lace curtains inward and outward.
Sleep led to dreams and dreams led to Kirim. Maran saw him again, falling from that great height. His hands let loose his halberd and his face filled with surprise as he realized his fall. Kirim struck the ground in a bloodied bounce, and his halberd spinning into the bushes, sending out a spray of yellow blooms. Even as the flowers spun down upon his corpse, the skinny dogs rushed in, sinking their teeth into his still living corpse, tearing at his armored belly, eager for their prize. Maran took out an iron knife, ripping open his belly.
Maran jerked herself awake, feeling as if she yelled. The room was dark. Altyn sat beside the window writing in a dim blue light. The lace curtains no longer moved.
Altyn commented, “You shouted.”
“I had a bad dream.”
Altyn lowered her voice. “You swore by the Mother of Storms. Do not speak of such a terrible god lest she notice you.”
“I did? I didn’t know.”
The dream was still on Maran, and she spoke without thinking, “I dreamed about my husband. I used to have a husband. His name was Kirim. I met him when he came to look at Grandfather’s knives. Before we knew it, our grandmothers were negotiating the betrothal and we were sitting among our elders, in silence, waiting for their approval.
“After we were married and settled down in my in-law’s house, some of the biggest wasps that you ever saw built a nest on top of Signal Rock. We have no idea where such huge things came from and we never did find out. We had to get rid of them because the wasps were attacking milk cows and children. We agreed that somebody had to climb up there and dislodge them. I told Kirim to volunteer, as it would help his reputation, and so he volunteered.
“Up there on Signal Rock, during that fight, something happened. Kirim slipped, then screamed, and died from the fall. I saw him fall. Sometimes, I dream about that fall again. It’s always a bad dream.”
Altyn’s voice did not soften. “I did not know. I had not realized that you were a widow. Thank you for telling me.”
Down below, someone knocked hesitantly at the front door. Altyn found her feet and put her head out of the window. “What do you want?” she spoke downward.
“Nightmare sickness, ma’am,” came a young voice.
“I’ll be down in a minute.”
Altyn hurriedly put her things down. “Get up. This will show you what life is like here.” She grabbed a bag sitting ready, thrusting it into Maran’s arms. “Carry this.” The pair followed the messenger boy into the street, walking into the slums that were the Outer City.
The boy guided them through the maze of rickety buildings, all seemingly the same, with Altyn following as if she knew the path. Through haphazard structures, one leaning against other, they trotted, hearing their own fluttered footsteps echoed in the deep shadows. Dogs and pigs, busily foraging among the trash piles, scatted as they hustled through.
The boy showed them to a building of tar paper and sticks, little better than a tent. His job completed, the boy opened his hand to them. Altyn quickly filled it with a penny. Covetous of his new treasure, the boy bounded away into the night. Altyn pulled back the blanket that was the door, entering a room filled with sweet smoke.
On the floor lay a man with one arm, pale and shaking. His body moved up and down, as if some beast had grabbed his heart from the middle, shaking him about while trying to dislodge it from his body. Nearby, in a corner, a girl, barely a woman, sat huddled. Years ago, tears had ceased flowing across her ashen face.
Altyn knelt and examined the man. “This is the nightmare sickness. It begins with bad opium. It advances into restless sleep and screaming visions. After that comes the wild shaking, then death. My current theory is that the person is possessed by something in the opium, and it is doing its best to get control. I w
ill attempt an exorcism, but I have yet to succeed. My bag, please.”
From the bag, Altyn withdrew a copper censer, filling it with coals and fragrant leaves. When it smoked well, she held the censer in her left hand and a fan in her right.
With a bow, Altyn began her ceremony. Three steps forward, she touched her fan to the man’s chest. She opened the fan as she stepped away, sweeping around her. Step by sweeping step, she moved about the dying man, swinging her censer. Sometimes she did not sweep, but folded her fan and tapped at the air. Through every movement and step of the ceremony, Altyn’s moves felt precise and immaculately practiced. She never lost her balance, even when making the most precarious steps or sudden leaps across the patient.
With no warning, Altyn stopped, then bowed again, steeling beside Maran. “That proved ineffective. I noticed no change in symptoms. I must research more exorcisms. In the meantime, it is best to conclude this case.”
From her bag, Altyn withdrew a rag and a blue bottle.
“We now need him to be steady. Maran, hold his head still.”
Maran held the man’s head. Altyn placed a rag across the man’s mouth, then dripped a strange and overwhelming liquid onto the rag. He shuddered and coughed a little, but eventually settled into a deeper somnolence and stillness.
“Essences of sleep,” Altyn stated.
Maran sat silent as Altyn took out more bottles, mixing them together. “I have another theory. I know that opium is the trigger for the sickness. If they can survive long enough, I believe that they can shake off the effects of the opium, and so escape death. However, I have found no way to stop the inevitable. The best that we can do is relieve their suffering. He is close, now. He will slip away by morning.
“The essences of sleep lasts but a short while. If we are to be merciful, we must hasten his departure.”
The ashen women sat there for a moment, slowly comprehending what Altyn meant, then wailed from the very bottom of her lost soul. Maran remembered that wail, having screamed it herself. In that moment, Signal Rock returned, where Kirim shuddered his death rattle.
Weeds Among Stone (Jura City Book 1) Page 7
