by Moose Tyler
She kept walking, calling out over her shoulder, “Sorry.”
Once she cleared the common area there was little incident after that, but the path from there to the healers’ camp was at an incline. She trudged north through the Farmlands. The bird pen was the last marker before she finally reached her destination.
The healers lived on the west bank near the northern tip of the Farmlands where the herbs grew more plentiful. Though their camp was spacious, plush, and fragrant, Amaria avoided it as much as possible. The smell made her nose twitch and being there brought back painful memories. She had stayed there a spell after her quest through the Valley of Sand. They had to burn parts of an infection out. She got sleeping tea for most of the procedure, but for the few heartbeats she was awake, the pain of the iron and the smell of her burnt flesh was nearly intolerable.
There were several healers in the tribe, but Gilda was the best. She had been tending to Amaria’s family since they had arrived on the island, and her farm was the biggest. It butted against Fertile Grounds and required more than a dozen citizens to manage.
Gilda was sitting under a tree, mixing herbs, when Amaria walked up. She was quite old, but she hadn’t aged as much as some of the other citizens. Her hair was dull grey, and her skin was the color of dark leather, except for her knees and elbows. Those were white like fire pit ash. Her face had creases at the corners of her eyes and crooks of her mouth, but other citizens had deeper lines. Gilda said she would have perished long ago had it not been for her hat.
She looked up from under the large brim. “Great Mother, Amaria.” She put the herbs down and stood up. She moved like oozing sap as she turned to the fields and whistled. She looked at Amaria. “Sit down before you fall over.”
“I’ll stand,” Amaria grunted. Her voice cracked when she spoke. Her mouth was as dry as parchment. “I could use some water.”
Gilda nodded. “It does look like you’ve had a day of it. Don’t you have a pouch?”
Hers was somewhere at the top of Mesha Cliff. She had tossed it like the pit of a fruit cluttering her satchel. “No, ma’am.”
Gilda shook her head. “You may be a warrior, Amaria, but even warriors need water.”
“I know.”
Gilda looked at the fields and whistled again. “Wanje sent a bird,” she said. “She says you’re my work horse for a while.”
Amaria nodded. “Did she say how long?”
“Just a while.” Gilda sat under the tree and picked up the bowl of herbs.
Standing still, Amaria felt her legs start to buckle. She paced to keep from falling but was moving as slow as Gilda. She had to get the pack off her back. She fumbled with the rope until she worked the knot loose. Four girls ran towards her from the field. She only had a few heartbeats before her legs would give. Toppling over in front of Gilda would have been embarrassing but not unusual, but Amaria would not look vulnerable in front of her students.
She pulled out the knot, and the sack of berries slid off her back and hit the ground with a thud. She groaned and stretched to loosen her muscles. Her shoulders felt on fire. The girls rushed over. Amaria recognized Bridget from General Studies.
Gilda took off her hat and wiped her brow. “Lithia, you and Marlee take this to the west field. Have it washed, and start the juicing.”
Orange-ringed berry juice was deadly in large doses but was the primary ingredient for the potion used to kill borrowing worms.
Lithia bowed. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Get a cart from the dung piles.”
Amaria crinkled her nose. The dung piles were foul. In General Studies, she had spent a rotation there. That was where she had met Bridget. She added dead leaves while Amaria turned the yuck. She retched frequently during the process, but only when Bridget was off collecting more debris.
Lithia and Marlee ran to the fields.
Gilda put her hat back on. “Bridget, they’re going to need a horse.”
Bridget had been studying to be a healer since she started General Studies, even though her family were game tenders by trade. She looked at the sack of berries. “The grey one’s most rested.”
Gilda nodded, and Bridget smiled at Amaria before running off to fetch the horse.
“Polly, take Amaria to the source. She looks a fright.”
Polly bowed. “Yes, ma’am.” She looked at Amaria and her nose crinkled as she motioned for her to follow. “This way.”
Amaria kept her distance. As humiliating as buckling under the weight of a sack of berries would have been, she also didn’t want to be downwind of a citizen while caked in so much grime and sweat. She could smell her own stench, and she cringed at the thought of any citizen, especially one as clean-looking as Polly, thinking she was smelly. During Warrior Training, when Amaria was practicing the intelligence gathering techniques she had learned in Combat, she overheard a few citizens talking about a warrior’s odor. She didn’t hear the name, but one woman said she smelled like a boar. The others laughed.
“She’s given the face of a Goddess yet reeks like rotted fruit,” another had said.
Though it shouldn’t matter what a citizen thinks of her, Amaria always worried that they were talking about her or had said similar things before. She knew she was not the cleanest in personal appearance when it came to general dust and entanglement of her braids, but she was always aware of when she needed a good scrub in the bathing pool. Cleanliness was important, not just for the tribe’s survival but for social standing and acceptance. It wasn’t uncommon for a warrior to be dirty. Patrols, training, and other duties were rigorous, but citizens bathed regularly and kept themselves groomed. They were required to by queen’s law. Otherwise, disease would spread through the dorms the way it had in the days of the ancestors.
Amaria approached the source, and Polly stepped aside. “I’ll get a pouch,” she said before hurrying away.
Amaria was grateful to be alone. She dipped the bucket in the water and took several swigs. It was cold and soothing. She wanted to have another gulp but didn’t know when Polly would return, so she used the heartbeats to clean her face, arms, and legs. A scrubbing cloth would have worked better than her hands, but she was compromising. She heard someone approach from behind her and felt a touch on her back.
“That’s not good,” said Polly. “Look at your shoulder.”
Amaria investigated. Thick, red welts covered her skin.
Polly set the pouch by the source and ran her fingers over the marks. “It’s from the berries.”
Her hands were soft. Compared to warriors, all citizen had soft hands, even among the weapon makers and those who worked the land.
She gave Amaria a cloth. “I’ll be back.”
She left, and Amaria refilled the bucket, took another drink, and was as clean as possible without a bathing pool when Polly returned with a metal tin.
“This should help with the itch,” she said. “Does it hurt?”
Amaria ached in so many places she had no idea what pain belonged to which wound. “A little. What is that?”
“Soothing cream. It keeps you from clawing off your skin while you sweat out the poison. Turn around.”
Amaria faced the source. She folded the scrubbing cloth neatly into a square and draped it on the lip of the rocks.
“Maybe sit on the ground,” Polly suggested.
Amaria knelt and sat on her heels. “Is this okay?”
“Perfect. This might feel cold.” She tightened her grip on Amaria’s arm and rubbed the cream into her shoulders.
Amaria’s skin tingled, and she groaned.
Polly laughed. “Great Mother, it’s all over your back.”
She groaned again and tried to relax. Polly had strong hands and was thorough and efficient, too efficient. In only a few heartbeats, the tension in Amaria’s shoulders released, and before she could exhale, the massage
was over.
“There. That should be good for now. Take this for later.” She gave Amaria the tin. It was small and oval-shaped. “Gilda says it’s your tip for carrying such a big load.”
“Thank you.”
“She says you’ll be back before first light to take the squeezed berries.”
Amaria stood up. “Yes.”
“And you’ll do this for a while?”
Amaria cursed under her breath. “Yes. I should be going.”
Polly gave Amaria a leather strap. “This will help protect your neck.”
Amaria looked at Polly. Her blonde hair was a bit short for its braid, and a few strands fell across her face. She blew the hair out of her eyes, and Amaria smiled. She did that too when her braids got in the way. Polly needed a band. Amaria thought a blue one would look nice with her skin and eye color.
“Thank you,” said Amaria, taking the leather.
Polly smiled. Her teeth were as white as a skimmer’s barb. She blew the hair from her eyes again. “I better get back to work. I hope I see you tomorrow. Great Mother be with you,” she said before hurrying to the field.
She had a good stride and was fast. In only a few heartbeats, Polly was at the gate. Amaria wondered if she had ever competed in the Citizen Games, though she didn’t recall seeing her in any of the events.
Her stomach growled, redirecting her attention. She couldn’t go another heartbeat without food, but the common area was out. Even if they were still serving, she wouldn’t go there. She would get enough social interaction at evening dine, the council meeting, and the fires after last light. Now, she wanted to go where she could smell like the dung piles and enjoy a few bird legs, laughs, and sweets. She filled the pouch and stowed it, along with the tin and leather strap, in her satchel before heading south to the artists’ camp.
Ursula lived in the artists’ camp with her caretaker, Pandora, in a small house a few trees away from the players’ stage. Her mother had died on the boat while traveling to Themiscia. Ursula wasn’t a daughter of Zeus, so the artists took her in and raised her. She moved in with Pandora permanently after Ursula started General Studies.
Pandora was Pandora’s stage name. Amaria asked Ursula once what it was before, but Ursula didn’t know. When Pandora talked about the past, which she did often, she would say things like the name that lives no more and before the inner artist stirred. She was, what many in the tribe called, an eccentric, but Amaria thought she was the most talented and entertaining of all the players, and she never missed seeing Pandora when she visited Ursula.
The artists’ camp was just west of the eastern docks and had more hidden paths than anywhere else on the island. All passages in Themiscia, expect the hidden and forbidden ones, were marked by color. The healers’ camp was green. The docks were blue. Farmlands were gold. Brown went to the warriors’ camp and training grounds. Black led to the mining hills. Red was for the common area, arena, and other places citizens gathered like the bathing pools, dorms, and Sacred Meadow.
The marks were easy to find, once you knew what to look for. When Amaria first learned the paths, she struggled to spot the brown, black, and green wedges carved at the base of taller trees and frequently overlooked the gold rings around smaller rocks. She wandered off course many times before finally learning her way. Now, she didn’t need the guides.
Purple led to the artists’ camp. Before Amaria had started General Studies, Pandora and some of the other artists protested the color. They painted several markers in their camp orange and white. Pandora said the group refused to be defined by one color. She was taken before the queen for the action but spared the cane. Instead, she and the others had to restore what they had altered and give what they hadn’t a fresh coat of paint. Pandora said the punishment was agony, and at the time, Amaria had sympathized. There were a lot of paths in the artists’ camp. Now though, as she thought about having to carry berries and give away her cherished weapons, Pandora’s sentence didn’t seem that harsh.
Amaria entered the artists’ camp and noticed the traffic had picked up. A girl walking along the path saw her and nudged the one beside her.
“Ouch! Watch your twigs,” she howled. She looked up and saw Amaria, and the pair started whispering.
Amaria stepped off the path and into the trees as soon as she could and snaked towards the galleries where the artists had their murals. They painted on trees, rocks, fallen branches, anything that stood still, and a few things that didn’t. Some would wash away in the rain but others were resilient, depending on the type of paint used. The galleries were busiest during Genesis and the Great Harvest, but most other days, it was a quiet place to read scrolls, think, and sit in peace.
As she neared Ursula’s house, Amaria noticed a new exhibit. She stopped to admire it. There were balls painted in brilliant orange, and the artist had bonded red cattail flowers to the tree, used small accents of deep purple on the edges, and boxed the whole thing in a rusted metal frame. At first assessment, Amaria determined the piece was lackluster. The red cattail flowers were a nice touch, but the exhibit as a whole lacked something. She would ask Ursula’s opinion. She often showed Amaria the latest exhibits and told her about the talk among the artists.
When Amaria approached the house, she heard Pandora singing from inside. The bird legs and sweets would be with her, but the laughs and talk would be with Ursula in the tree in the back. Amaria knocked on the door, and the singing from inside stopped. She knocked again, but there was no response. She opened the door and peeked inside.
The house was much smaller than Amaria’s. It was made of thatch and had one room. Tall shelves stuffed with scrolls lined the wall. There was a narrow bed in the corner and costumes, colored hair, and other props took up the rest of the space. Pandora sat, slumped over a table, next to the small window. The roasted bird legs and sweets were on the platter beside her.
“Pandora?”
She didn’t move.
Amaria crept closer. “It’s Amaria.”
Pandora sat up dramatically and gasped. She stared at Amaria with a crazed look for a few heartbeats before looking up at the roof. She shook her fist violently in the air. “Why,” she sobbed. “Why?” She stood up. “Oh, laugh as I weep.” As she paced, her voice rose with confidence. “Go on. Laugh until you’ve had your fill.” She cackled wickedly and walked four paces to the left. “You have it all, youth, beauty, wealth, but I have something you will never have.” She paused before whirling around and looking at Amaria. “My dignity,” she said dramatically. She closed her eyes, dropped her head, extended her arms, and whispered, “Scene.”
Amaria applauded.
Pandora bowed. “You are too kind, Amaria.” She wiped the tears from under her eyes with the cloth she had around her shoulders. “There was passion, but I’m afraid I’m just not of fan of the words. They’re not mine. Another thought hers were better. I’m sure the reviews will be unkind.”
Amaria didn’t read play reviews. When she did read Tribe Talk, it was mostly during the Genesis Games and only to see her name and to keep track of the other winners, but since her loss to Zora, she had avoided those kinds of parchments.
“Everyone’s a critic,” was all she could think to say.
Pandora smiled. “And that’s why you’re my favorite of all Ursula’s friends. You’re a shooting star. Now, get your fill and be gone. She’s in the tree.”
Amaria walked to the table. “Thanks, Pandora.” She limited herself to a single leg and two sweet rolls.
She ate the bread before getting more than a few steps into the yard. She reached the base of Ursula’s tree and looked up to see the latch door was open. “Urs,” she called out before putting the bird leg in her mouth and grabbing the rope.
As she pulled herself up, her muscles cramped. The rope was knotted in several places, and normally she didn’t need the assistance, but after the workout
she had just had, she paused on the third knot for a few heartbeats before finishing the climb.
When she reached the top, she grabbed the edge and dragged herself over. Ursula was in the corner. She slammed the top of her trunk shut and whirled around. Her hair was dyed a new color. It matched the pink-striped cloth she had pulled up to her knees and covering her arms. She wore a blue smock speckled with paint.
Amaria took the bird leg out of her mouth and motioned to Ursula’s hair. “You got a new color. Pink looks good.”
“It washes out. Just white dust and berries.” She rushed to a parchment on the floor and scooped it up. “What are you doing here? You’re usually training or warrior things.” She rolled up the scroll.
She was acting like Amaria did when her mother walked in the room while she was writing secret thoughts in the bound parchment. “Did I interrupt something?”
She put the scroll in the trunk and slammed it shut again. “No. Just a new piece not ready to be seen. Oh, before I forget, happy council meeting, and they gave me a tree.”
“That’s beastly, Urs!”
Ursula walked away from the trunk. “I’m showing on Genesis, but that’s just half the problem. Vi got her first tree, too, and the trees they gave us are right in front of Florencia’s mural.”
Amaria gnawed on the bird leg. “Which one?”
“Creation.”
Creation was an enormous piece that many considered the best mural in Themiscia.
Ursula sat on the rug, picked up some parchment and a burnt stick, and sketched lines. “So, there’s my small tree right in front of that intense piece. Don’t get me wrong. It’s divine, but it’s so big and detailed. Anything I come up with will be minimal by comparison.”
Amaria felt that Ursula was being too hard on herself. Florencia’s work was impressive, and Creation was a pretty piece, but Amaria thought Ursula’s work was good too. She sat down and put the bird leg on the floor. She wiped her hands on her kilt before picking up a piece of clay and rolling it into a ball. “I would take it as a compliment.”
