“My, the poor man must have been at the end of his strength. You couldn’t have put him inside the wagon? It’s a wonder he didn’t fall off, and you wouldn’t even have known it until you got home.”
“All right, all right, Gwanel, I admit you’re right. I didn’t think about what shape he might be in. I should have known better after seeing him lying on the road. I must not have been thinking clearly, so eager was I to get home and see your face.”
“Hmmph,” Gwanel sniffed, but her smile erased any criticism.
“So, now what do we do with him?” asked Ulwyn.
“He doesn’t smell that bad,” said Gwanel, “so he’s been cleaned up fairly recently, which makes me wonder all the more what he was doing out on the beach at Derwun Bay. However, some of the scratches I can see need attention, so he must have more all over his body. Help me get the clothes off, and let’s see the rest of him.”
Ulwyn complied without comment, there being no strict nudity taboos, except in formal social situations. He rolled the man as he and his wife removed the trousers and the shirt.
“Tsk. Some of those scratches look nasty, especially a couple I imagine are from krafun thorns. I’ll clean them and put on some ointment, but I’m afraid one or more of those will get infected. If that happens, we’ll have to get him to a healer.”
Ulwyn groaned as softly as he could, so his wife wouldn’t hear. He hadn’t thought of what to do with the man after getting him home. What he hadn’t planned to do was spend coin to pay for medical treatments for someone he didn’t know and had no responsibilities for. Maybe bringing him to his wife’s attention was a mistake, but now there was nothing to do about it.
Gwanel first cleaned the man’s entire body with warm water.
“No beard?” she questioned. “So, he’s likely not from Frangel. And not even stubble, so he must have shaved within a day or two. Could he have fallen off some ship and washed up on the beach?”
“Why would a ship of foreigners be in Derwun Bay?” asked Ulwyn. “There’s no port, and foreigners don’t fish in these waters.”
Everyone on Drilmar adhered to fishing treaties as part of the peace accords of two centuries ago.
“I’ve heard tell that some men elsewhere on Anyar have shaved faces,” said Gwanel. “I’ve talked with other women about some advantages of a beardless husband—like not getting tickled or scratched when his mouth is in sensitive places. Plus, food wouldn’t catch in the beard the way it does with your brother Rhomun. God’s mercy! I sometimes swear I could tell what that man had eaten the last three or four days by glancing at his beard.”
“Rhomun never was one to pay attention to cleanliness,” said Ulwyn. “Our mother almost had to tie his hands and feet to get him into a bath. That, plus his nasty nature, always made me wonder how he’s lived this long without someone killing him. He’s two years older than me, and I certainly was relieved when he left home to go to Brawsea. When he came home three years later, scruffier and meaner than before, Father and Mother refused to let him live at home. I haven’t seen him in fifteen years since he moved back to Brawsea. I don’t even know if he’s alive.”
“Well, this one’s alive,” said Gwanel. “Beard or no, he’s a healthy piece of a man. I’d say, what . . . about thirty years old, maybe a little more? Hard to tell, but he’s got a strong frame and big bones, though his muscles are slack, as if they hadn’t been used much recently. I’ll bet he can fill out into an impressive size and heft.”
The cloth she was using had progressed below his abdomen. “He’s certainly endowed,” she said. “Better have a good-sized wife to handle this.” She moved on to his legs.
“Help me roll him over,” she ordered.
“I guess that confirms what he was doing,” she said, seeing only a few scratches on the back of his torso, buttocks, and legs. “He must have started off at the beach unmarred and got all the scratches as he pushed his way to the road. I’ll finish here, then go back to treat the worst of them. Then we’ll let him rest. When he wakes, he’ll be hungry, and maybe we can find out more about him.”
Cooking odors were the first thing Mark noticed. He couldn’t identify the ingredients, but his stomach rumbled before his eyes opened. He was on a mattress—at least, that’s what he assumed. He lay directly on cloth, but whatever was beneath the cloth felt lumpy, and he detected an occasional near prick when he shifted his weight.
At least, the ceiling isn’t white, was his next thought, like the all-white room where he first awoke after the collision.
He tensed muscles to sit up and succeeded, but only after considerable effort. The room was about fifteen feet square with plain wooden furniture. He saw what looked like a bookcase, although the shelves held folded cloth and clothing, several pair of shoes, and two boxes.
Their version of a chest of drawers? he wondered.
Then he noticed he wore trousers and a shirt different from the ones the man in the wagon had given him. He also felt cleaner, and several of the deeper scratches were covered with an ointment.
Voices came from elsewhere—a man and a woman. Then he remembered the woman he’d seen when they’d first arrived.
Must be his wife.
“Hello?” he called.
“Ah . . . he’s awake,” said Gwanel from the kitchen. “Go bring him here, and I’ll feed him.”
Ulwyn went to the spare bedroom/storage room and found the stranger sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Hmmph. You’re awake. You slept most of the afternoon, which means you must have needed it. Gwanel is committed to feeding you. I suggest you show proper appreciation, or her mood will change faster than a dolerter can run.” The wild grazing animal was famous for its speed and graceful lines.
Ulwyn tugged on one arm. The man got the message and slowly rose to his bare feet. Ulwyn led him to the kitchen table, where Gwanel was laying out bread, a thick stew, and water. The stranger sat and didn’t need prompting to pick up the spoon and dive into the stew bowl. After several bites, he dipped the bread into the juices and within minutes finished the stew and half a loaf of bread.
“Better not give him any more yet,” said Ulwyn. “Let what he’s eaten settle first. We don’t know how long it’s been since he ate. He might get sick if he overeats.”
“Any idea what his name is?” asked Gwanel.
Ulwyn sat opposite the man and rapped knuckles on the table to draw his attention.
“What . . . is . . . your . . . name?” he said.
Mark just stared.
“Name. Name. What’s your name?” Ulwyn reiterated firmly.
“God give me patience,” said Gwanel, rolling her eyes to the heavens. “For someone as clever a trader as you are, you can be incredibly dense at times. You already said he speaks some language you’ve never heard before. It stands to reason he might not understand you any better. He may be some foreigner who fell off a ship.”
She pushed her husband out of his seat and took his place. Smiling, she tapped her chest. “GWA . . . nel. GWA . . . nel. Gwanel. Gwanel.”
The man nodded and pointed to her. “GwaNUL. GwaNUL.”
She shook her head. “GWAnel.”
This time he came very close in pronouncing it correctly. She tapped herself again. “Gwanel Hovey. Gwanel Hovey.” She pointed at her husband. “Ulwyn Hovey. Ulwyn Hovey.”
“Gwanel Hovey. Ulwyn Hovey.”
“Hah! Trust a woman to get through to a man,” boasted Gwanel, who then pointed at the man. He got the message immediately.
“Mark. Mark Caldwell.”
“Mark Kaldwel,” Gwanel repeated, turning to Ulwyn. “His name is Mark Kaldwel.”
“Never heard of him,” said Ulwyn before he could catch himself.
“That’s because he’s a stranger, you dotty old man.”
“All right. All right. But what do we do with him? I could take him to one of the temples tomorrow and let them figure out what to do.”
“What you will do, Ulwyn Hovey
, is take him by wagon to all the temples and anywhere else you can think of tomorrow to see if anyone recognizes him or has any idea who he is or where he’s from. If that doesn’t work, then bring him back here, and we can decide what’s next.”
“No luck?” asked Gwanel the next day when Ulwyn returned. After three hours of driving around Tregallon with Mark, he’d failed to come any closer to identifying the stranger.
“Nothing. No one has any idea who he is.” Ulwyn looked like he’d bitten into something sour or spoiled. “I made the mistake of asking Prelate Belenus when I passed the Sholster temple. He had no idea who Mark Kaldwel is but said it was obvious to him that God had placed the man in our care until he could go on his own or we find out who he is.”
“I knew it!” exclaimed Gwanel. “Something told me that was the case almost as soon as I saw him. It was like a message from God.”
“I seem to recall past messages about stray animals and inspired recipes that didn’t turn out,” Ulwyn replied churlishly.
Despite his comment, Ulwyn didn’t tell his wife that he and Belenus had spoken at some length. The prelate had the infuriating habit of drawing out what Ulwyn didn’t want exposed. It had happened before and occurred again today. Though not pious and often voicing skepticism about all religions, Ulwyn had a lingering worry that he had not done enough in his life to please God—if the deity existed. Belenus pointed out that the stranger might be an opportunity given by God. Ulwyn didn’t tell the prelate he wasn’t convinced God was directly involved in the encounter, but Belenus was already aware of the trader’s skepticism and pointed out it wouldn’t hurt to store up some credit for good deeds—just in case God did exist and kept accounts.
“He seems genuinely curious about everything,” Ulwyn said before his wife could launch a rejoinder. “Just as a person would act on seeing it for the first time.”
For the next two days, Ulwyn replenished his dwindling stock of trade goods from the shops and craftspeople of Tregallon. On the second day, the sun was touching the horizon when he returned home, gave his wife a peck on the cheek, and asked about their mysterious guest.
“Well, he slept until almost mid-day. Since I fed him, he’s been sitting there in front of the house where you saw him when you came home. He’s been like that for the last three hours, just watching people pass by. At times, it’s almost like he’s never seen other people before. A couple of the neighbors came to ask who he was, including that irritating Wyla Murtot. I swear, he hadn’t sat outside more than a few minutes before she was nagging me about who he was and what he was doing here.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her he’s someone you met during your trade route and might take him on as an assistant.”
“What! Why did you tell her that?”
“I had to tell her something to shut her up, and that just popped into my head. Anyway, after I said it, I got to thinking that maybe he’s an answer to my prayers. You aren’t getting any younger, and having a man working with you would help. Plus, you might expand your trade route. Don’t think I haven’t realized your route has been gradually getting smaller the last couple of years.”
He sighed. “I suspected you’d noticed, but I didn’t want to talk about it. I just worry about what happens if the day comes when I can’t do the routes. And yes, I’ve been thinking about hiring a bright youngster, but this man . . . Mark . . . I need to get used to his name . . . Mark doesn’t fit that role. Besides being a mature man, he doesn’t look like a trader. I make the effort to appear innocuous, which is best if you’re selling things. Mark’s too big, and I suspect he might fill out as he recovers and be a little intimidating, especially to women customers.”
“Then that doesn’t answer what we should do with him,” said Gwanel. “Now that he’s here, we can’t just push him out on his own. We have to do enough for him so he can find a place or go where he can reconnect to his own people, whomever they are. Language is an obvious problem. We won’t know if we can help him find out where he’s from until we can talk to him. You’re sure he doesn’t speak any language you recognize?”
“Well, certainly not any Frangel dialect,” said Ulwyn, “which means he’s a foreigner. Neither is his speech like any of the nearby languages, including North and South Madyrnanese. I had hopes for Novarynese since it’s so similar to Frangelese, but no luck there or with what little Tekleumese I’ve heard. Neither does it sound like Suvalu.”
The farthest west on the Drilmar continent was Rumpas, but Ulwyn had never, to his knowledge, heard the Rumpas language spoken. Suvalu was the trade language spoken throughout eastern Anyar, particularly in the ports of Fuomon, the Harrasedic League, and all of Drilmar. Ulwyn didn’t know how far west Suvalu was known in ports on the Ganolar continent, western Melosia, and Landolin.
“Same with Narthani, Fuomonese, or any of the Harrasedic languages and dialects I’ve heard. Of course, these last ones I don’t have that much experience hearing, so I thought on my next trade trip I might go a little farther to Kaledon or Brawsea and see if I can find people at a port learning center who know more languages. In the meantime, I’ll try to get him interested in learning enough Frangelese to carry on basic conversations. Maybe then we can find out something about him and get a better idea what to do with him.”
Mark had waved to Ulwyn when the trader returned from wherever he had been. He had occupied the hours sitting in front of the house not just by taking in the surroundings and people, but by running over his situation in his mind. He was alive. He’d lucked out and connected with people who seemed willing to take him in, though he didn’t know for how long. Whatever the local customs were, he had to find a way to care for himself before their charity ran out. In his engineering work and when he’d transitioned more to management, he had relied on prioritizing action items.
His thinking kept coming back to two things he needed to do. One was language. He had to learn as much as he could as fast as possible. His future depended on communication, first, and then understanding the local culture, second. To accomplish this, his best chances lay in making himself useful to the older couple, so they would let him stay with them until he was ready to strike out on his own. He knew he was still weak from what he’d been through, but after food and two night’s sleep, he already felt far better than when he’d woke up on the beach.
He would try to convey appreciation, which was real, but he was unsure how to communicate. There must be things he could do around the couple’s property. He would strive to make it clear that he wanted to help by doing whatever was useful. At the same time, he would take every moment to learn the language. He sensed the wife would be a willing teacher, but he wasn’t sure about the trader—time would tell. Maybe neighbors would help once they were accustomed to his presence and he knew a few words and phrases. Of course, adults in a culture like this were likely busy all day with work and family, but he might be able to practice speaking with children and increase his vocabulary, if their parents allowed.
His mother’s parents spoke Basque to each other—the grandmother had been from the western Pyrenees Mountains between Spain and France. She’d married a Colorado farm boy, and he’d loved her enough to learn her language—not an easy task because Basque was an isolated language not related to the Indo-European language family. Mark’s mother spoke a little Basque, though not much to her children, but she visited her parents regularly since they lived only thirty miles away. Mark adored his grandparents and learned enough words and phrases to claim he was at least familiar with Basque.
In addition, he’d taken two years of Spanish in high school, which he used only when reading menus in Mexican restaurants. He also had a rough idea what was said in untranslated Spanish dialogue in movies and TV and impressed a few Hispanic girls he’d dated. While he wasn’t inherently interested in foreign languages, both Basque and Spanish had seemed to come to him without excessive effort. He felt optimistic that he’d pick up the local language quickl
y, especially since he was highly motivated, and it would be total immersion. Despite what he told himself, he knew it hadn’t completely sunk in yet that he would never hear English again, except for talking to himself.
Two days later, Ulwyn and Gwanel were gratified that Mark Kaldwel was going to be less of problem than they’d feared.
“Obviously, there’s no problem getting him to try to learn Frangelese,” said Ulwyn. “He pesters me every second I’m near him to give the words for anything in sight. At first, I was wondering how to teach him, and now I just wish he’d shut up sometimes and go away.”
Gwanel laughed. “Oh, he’s not bothering you every second. Sometimes it’s me, and this afternoon I saw him getting pronunciation lessons from Tilman Kwynin next door. I couldn’t help but laugh, watching a seven-year-old get impatient with Mark for not saying horse properly. Tilman’s mother wasn’t too sure about Mark, but I assured her he was harmless. It wasn’t till later that I realized maybe I shouldn’t have said that because we really don’t know him. However, he’s also doing whatever he can to be useful.”
Ulwyn groaned. “Don’t I know it? Besides the language lessons, he follows me around and gets in the way as much as he helps. I console myself that he’ll learn enough to be told when he’s helping and when he’s not.”
He tugged at his beard. “In fact, I have an idea. I appreciate his trying to help, but there’s not enough to keep him busy all the time. Plus, we’re feeding, clothing, and give him a place to stay. He should be helping repay us. What if I talk to your brother, Haral? He’s always complaining he needs more part-time workers for building and repair jobs, and how he’s got to keep an eye on his men to make them work. Mark might be able to do some of the simple labor tasks if Haral shows him how. He seems hardworking enough. I think Haral would get his coin’s worth.”
“How do you expect him to work in his present condition, you silly old man?” scolded Gwanel.
Passages Page 3
