A Thread of Time: Firesetter, Book 1

by J. Naomi Ay

  Having Sandy around did bring a few benefits, though, some that I could never have imagined. To all the single women aboard, I suddenly looked like an awesome father. They flocked around me and the kid, asking me out on dates even though they had refused me before. Nearly every weekend, Noodnick or Wen was called upon to babysit.

  A couple years later, after I had been promoted to full commander, when Sandy was in the fifth grade, or thereabouts, the Discovery was reassigned to patrol the fourth sector. We were near the boundaries of what had been the old Empire, orbiting a moon which had an amusement park that Sandy was sure to like.

  We were heading out on shore-leave with Wen and Noodnick, when I discovered that old coin sitting in my dresser drawer. On a whim, I put it in my pocket.

  “Hey, I wonder if anyone on this moon will be able to tell me how much it’s worth.” I was talking mostly to myself, but Sandy overheard.

  “What?” She turned her gaze away from that show on the vid, which featured a bunch of kids singing in some high school auditorium. Once again, I marveled at how incredibly beautiful my child was. No matter how many times I looked at her, my Sandy had the appearance of a red-headed angel.

  “I've got this coin.” Fishing it out of my pocket, I began to explain about my inheritance and how I had intended to take it to the old Empire. “So, I've been in space for nearly a dozen years, and this is the first time I've gotten anywhere close. Maybe someone will make me an offer for ten thousand dollars or more.”

  “May I see it, Daddy?”

  “Sure.”

  I laid it in her hand. It was gold and heavy. Despite its age and wear, the etchings were still quite clear. The backside had the Imperial Crest with the black eagle and two crossed swords. Displayed on the front, in profile, was the old emperor's face.

  Sandy looked at it in her palm and her mouth fell open wide. Her big green eyes instantly filled with tears.

  “What is it?” I cried as her hand began to shake.

  “I lost this,” she wailed. “This was mine.”

  Chapter 11

  Pellen

  We had traveled across the sea for nearly seven days when the peaks of the Blue Mountains came into sight. This was quicker than I had imagined, for the distance to our motherland had always seemed as far as the next star, and as difficult a journey as traversing through space. The winds had blown strongly and from behind us, swelling Jan’s torn sail as if their sole purpose was to propel us to the awaiting shore. This made our passage easy. The boat rocked little and though it was small, there seemed to be room enough for us four.

  The rains came each day, but only briefly, filling our bucket with just enough to wash and quench our thirst. Jan and the little orphan, Dov fished often, their nets trailing behind us in the morning when the currents were calm and the fish climbed to the surface in search of food.

  For our meals, we shared their catch, carving it into small pieces, devouring the raw salty flesh as if it was the finest of delicacies served in the land.

  My son enjoyed this menu, much more so than the thin soups and flat, stale breads he was accustomed to at home. Whether as a result of the proteins in this flesh or the irons in the fish blood he sipped, Amyr remained strong during those few days, sitting upright, or walking slowly about the boat. In my haste to depart, I had forgotten all his medicines at home, yet now, without them, he seemed healthier than before. His strange, but beautiful eyes, glowed like a brilliant rainbow of light, although there was a new darkness in them, a coldness, as if his joy was gone.

  “What is it?” I would ask him. “What troubles you, my son?”

  “Nothing, Papa,” he would murmur, turning away.

  My son was changing on this voyage, metamorphosing in a way I could not understand. It was ever so slightly, almost unnoticeable until I blinked and then, I could not say exactly what was different.

  This I knew, always, despite his lifetime of frailness and infirmity, Amyr had a peace about him, a smile upon his face. He was loving and we cherished him. Inexplicably, his very presence seemed to fill us with hope. Now, I felt a chill whenever I gazed upon his face. My lips froze when I kissed his forehead. My hand stopped and refused to touch, when I reached to stroke his beautiful hair.

  “Leave me be, Papa.”

  He dismissed me, turning his back when only days before I had clutched him to my chest. I feared I was losing him, when in truth, to me he was already gone. Only days before, I had a wife and son and now I was alone with neither a family, nor a home, journeying across the massive sea to a land unknown.

  What became of my wife, I could only guess. For weeks prior, in the village, I had heard rumors that made my heart sicken. If Ailana was alive when the Korelesk’s army found her, I shuddered to imagine what they did. My wife, despite her thin form, and the new cruelness in her heart, was still beautiful, so much so, all others paled beside her.

  I had also heard tales of camps and prison like places where our people were taken and put to work. I didn’t know much of these things as only snippets were passed in the whisperings between one and another.

  Of course, all of it could be false, I had told myself. In this time and this century, I could not imagine my fellow man so uncivilized and cruel. This was before the army came to our doors. This was before our village was reduced to rubble and ash, and I was set adrift upon the ocean.

  I was thankful beyond measure that we had come safely to this boat and that our travels on this sea were going well. Each night, I bid these children to join me in prayer, to thank the Holy One for His guidance and His grace. Although we didn’t know the words, having never spoken the language of the motherland, I believe we communicated these thoughts in our hearts.

  Dov and Jan joined me in this worship, kneeling by my side, bowing their heads and holding hands, closing their eyes. Amyr sat on the forward deck, purposely avoiding us and our prayer, his odd eyes flashing in the darkness at the sea.

  “Is he not grateful?” Jan asked after bidding him to take her hand, to which he shook his head and resumed his perch on the bow.

  “Of course, he is,” I began to say.

  “He prays in his own way,” the street boy replied with a knowing certainty in his voice and in his eyes.

  “How?”

  The little boy shrugged. “Leave him alone. You won't understand even if he tells you.”

  “And, how do you know?” Jan demanded. “The two of you have only just met.”

  Dov smiled. “Like him, I am an old soul, as old as the wind, as old as the sea. Amyr and I have crossed paths many times in other lives.”

  Our travels were filled with endless hours of boredom when I grew restless, for there was little for me to do. I would have fished or guided the boat, but my skills were poor, while the children took pleasure in these tasks.

  Instead, I stared at the horizon and reflected upon my arm. I had been shot, yet I showed no trace of wound. I had seen both blood and bone and felt the searing pain. A moment later, I saw and felt nothing amiss.

  Had I imagined it all, the healing touch from my son’s hand? Jan and Dov had seen it too for days afterward, Jan insisted upon examining my arm.

  I did not dare approach my son and question him, despite how it consumed my thoughts both day and night. However, my wife’s parting words resonated through my skull. He was not my son. He never was. But, who did he belong to then, and why was he here?

  Now, I could see not only was this true, but entirely obvious, had I dared to look. He resembled nothing of me, not in his beauty or his temperament. I had always attributed his looks to Ailana’s fair genes, assuming her father had granted him the wavy black hair, the noble brow, the firm chin, and the strangely colored eyes.

  “Jan,” I whispered to my niece one night, while we lay awake staring at the vast star-filled sky and bathing in the light of the two moons. “Have you ever seen a picture of Ailana's father, or your grandfather, perhaps?”

  “No, Uncle. Why do you ask?”
<
br />   At first, I didn't respond, for to do so would be to admit out loud that which I truly didn’t want to know.

  Jan hesitated, and her breath came quickly, which I knew meant she had something to say.

  “Tell me,” I bid her with a sigh. “It doesn't matter anyway. I will always love him as my son. I will always love you, my niece, the same as if you were my daughter.”

  Jan drew a long deep breath and exhaled slowly, speaking to the stars, refusing to meet my gaze.

  “I shouldn't,” she insisted. “What Mama told me was a secret not to be shared.”

  I nodded, although she did not see it. Revealing this was nearly the same as exposing the secret itself.

  “Mama said Amyr takes after his father. Mama said had she not been present and seen Auntie give birth, she would have doubted that Auntie was even his mother. I am sorry, Uncle. You have been the best father to him, and to me, for I can recall so little of my own papa.”

  I patted Jan's hand and rose unsteadily. The boat rocked beneath me as it bobbed up and down on the waves. The winds were calm, but the current was strong, and we still moved along with a steady clip as I stood grasping the rail and watching Amyr.

  He was laying upon the boat's bow. Dov sat next to him, their feet side by side. Their hands were behind their heads, their faces upturned to the darkened sky.

  I saw then in the light of the two moons, everything that I missed in the daylight of the sun. My son, my heart, my babe was the issue of another man, and with a face that was recognizable by another name.

  The next morning a large boat approached us from the shore. Aboard were our kinsmen, although they did not know it. They pointed their guns upon us and shouted in a language I didn't understand.

  The children waved and called, but the men didn't lower their guns until Amyr climbed from the tiny cabin where he had been asleep. I didn't know if it was his face that caused such shock, his fluency in a language he had never once uttered, or the brightly colored light shining from his eyes.

  “Kari-fa!” a man declared, his voice carrying across the waves.

  He stepped back from the rail and spoke quickly to his comrades. The only word I understood was the exclamation at the outset of his sentence. It was a profanity my grandfather often used and one I would not repeat in the presence of these children.

  However, he was not the only one to utter this expletive. His companions pointed at my son and cried the same, reminding me again how blind and foolish I had been. What was clearly obvious to these strangers had eluded me for more than ten years.

  In the end, the Karuptas laid down their guns and welcomed us aboard their vessel. Towing Jan's little craft along behind, I wondered how the four of us crossed the ocean in such a tiny boat without being swamped by waves or capsized by a gust of wind.

  Several hours later when we stood unsteadily upon the shore, our feet unused to the earth after so long at sea, I marveled again how we came to escape, while our friends and neighbors were now dead or enslaved.

  I knelt upon the dirt of this holy land from which my forefathers and mothers sought so anxiously to leave and I, just as anxiously or more so, had longed to return.

  “Kira-ka tefira laka lanu,” a man said as I let the soil sift through my fingers.

  I shrugged and shook my head, apologizing for my lack of comprehension. He repeated his words louder as if it was only his volume that kept me from comprehending.

  “He says you have been blessed,” Amyr announced from his side.

  “By who?” I asked, as my son walked away.

  He left with the men of Karupatani, leaving me alone with neither wife, nor child.

  “He belongs with them,” Dov said taking my hand in his. “You have done your part and now it is time for someone else.”

  “You have us, Uncle,” Jan said. “And, we are home. We are your family.”

  Thus, it was, and I told myself, I would be content. I was, for here amongst my people, I was meant to be.

  Chapter 12

  Ailana

  In the winter, I was given the King’s cloak to mend after his horse had stepped upon the hem and torn it out. While I was repairing this unfortunate occurrence, I was asked to change the buttons from gold to black.

  “He means to melt and sell the gold,” the Head Seamstress reported. “Our treasury is so empty. Even as a lad, poor Mikal was never good with counting sums.” This was followed by a series of clucks that the old woman made with her tongue. “Back in the Empress Sara’s day, Mikal’s father, Duke Thunk had quite the grasp on our finances. Not only could they wear their fancy gold buttons, but every Sunday was a special dinner just for palace staff. I remember the desserts. Always, there were enormous, fancy cakes, and fountains that poured chocolate like water.”

  I liked the black buttons, even more so than the gold, but I did not argue with the Head Seamstress, who was always right. The buttons were made from onyx, soft and shiny and as smooth as pearls. They were cool to my touch, as soothing as water upon my fingers.

  I lingered over this task, sewing each button with extraordinary care for it was the King who would touch these after me. Then, I hemmed his cape with a precision that even my grandmother would envy, letting the heavy waves of soft cashmere keep me warm.

  The winter was wicked, as bad as any had ever been with great storms blowing upon us from the ocean. It snowed heavily for weeks, and when that stopped, it rained just as hard. The river flooded the city streets as the sea did the same to the courtyard of the palace.

  With the floods, those so unfortunate to be living upon the streets, were swept off in the waters like specks of dirt. My old companions in the parks were washed away, never more to be seen.

  “And not missed, I tell you,” the Head Seamstress cackled. “Better they be gone.”

  In the spring, the waters receded and for a while, the city looked clean, although there was an undercurrent of fear even within the safety of the palace gates.

  “Duke Korelesk is angry,” the Head Seamstress declared, biting off a thread she had used to repair a fine lady’s dress. The lady was the wife of the late Duke of Turko, and some said she was at the palace to romance the King. “The King let so many die, even though I say good riddance. Korelesk would have done nothing different, but he uses it to gain political points.”

  “Why?” I asked, threading my own needle to repair a workman’s trousers. The King’s fine clothes needed nothing these days. Either he never wore them, or the dowager Duchess Turko was repairing them herself.

  “Korelesk sees himself as king. If our Mikal does not wake from his malaise and raise a hand against his enemies, we’ll be sewing for Korelesk and his bastard offspring.”

  Korelesk himself was a bastard, his claim to the throne dating back to an illegitimate prince from centuries prior. None of that would matter though. If Mikal died and Korelesk seized the throne, there would be no one to challenge Korelesk’s new rule of law.

  “Except for the new Duke of Turko, that odd alien fellow, whatever he is, and the Duke of Kildoo, who is an ancient, elderly man. Oh, what a state we are in!” The Head Seamstress declared, “It was so much better during the Empress Sara’s days, and before that, during the time of the Great Emperor, her grandfather.”

  I would have liked to tell my mistress how much she sounded like my grandmother and how it irritated me in the same way. But, I didn’t. It was spring and the flowers were in bloom. Each morning I awoke in my shared bed to the music of birds chirping.

  I didn’t care about Korelesk or even our King Mikal. I cared only for myself and the attention of young men who would follow me about the courtyard, or approach me in the restaurants where I dined.

  The fountain had been turned off since the autumn, since that night when I was joined upon a bench by a gentleman, who smoked a cigarette. Not once since then had I seen him, but neither did I care.

  Still, I loved to stroll the city streets, and the palace grounds, especially when the daylight las
ted well into the evening. Gentlemen and their lessers would sidle to my side and bow politely, inquiring if I might be joined. Whether or not I consented, they’d remark upon the weather, or my lovely dress, or the brilliant golden color of my hair. Always, they asked my name and only rarely would I answer. Yet, they followed me as if I had a train.

  During a night of the golden moons, when the sky shone with a color that some said was the same as my hair, there was a chill to the air despite being well into the spring. I was standing and admiring the scent of a new white rose, leaning into the bush, my nose perfectly positioned to inhale the blossom’s delicate fragrance, when someone bumped squarely into me, knocking me ajar. I fell upon the rosebush, becoming entangled in its thorns, whereupon I tore my wrap and scratched both hands and face.

  “I beg your pardon!” a man cried. “I am so sorry for what I have done. I confess, I was not paying attention to where I was walking.” He reached for my arm, which I immediately pushed away.

  However, in attempting to brush him off, I caught my sleeve upon his cuff and in the ensuing awkward effort to untangle ourselves, I tore off his button. Once free, he bowed politely, and then, hurried away upon the path, while I swore profusely in the language of the motherland. That was until I looked upon the button in my hand, or rather ran my fingers across its smooth and shiny surface.

  “Kari-fa!” I said aloud, for the King’s black onyx button shimmered like the golden moonlight overhead.

  I kept the button, although I told no one, storing it in my purse among with my coins. It wasn’t worth much, but when I gazed upon it I always laughed, for it reminded me of how I fell into a rosebush at the behest of the King.

  During the summer months, I began to see a young man. We met on the palace steps one balmy evening, both returning from the old city at the same time. Lioter had been raised in the palace, as his father was a confidant to the king. In fact, all of his grandfathers, dating back to the one who served the Great Emperor, made a living of whispering into the King's ear.