When he got home with his father, his mother hugged him like she never wanted to let him go. Oaka played with him like nothing bad had happened, and Jawen even apologized to him. It was the first time Basha and Jawen ever spoke with each other face-to-face in a real conversation.
“Not as sorry as I am!” Basha exclaimed after her apology. He’d been playing with toy soldiers his grandfather had made for him when she’d surprised him. Otherwise he’d have run off long before she ever got close to him. He shook his head, looking down at the toy soldiers. “I don’t feel like I belong here anymore. I don’t even know who my real parents are,” he said, knocking down the toy soldiers.
“I’m sorry,” Jawen whispered again.
He looked up. “How can I prove to you I’m no balnor? That I’m worthy and have a real mother and father?”
“Basha, you don’t have to prove anything to me,” Jawen said, turning around and walking away. “I only wanted to say I was sorry,” she muttered, looking back.
“Jawen, wait!” Basha said, getting up to follow her. She stopped and turned back to him. “Thank you for apologizing to me, and thank you for leading me to the truth, even though you didn’t know what it was.”
“Why are you thanking me? What’s so special about the truth?” Jawen asked.
“The truth is special when it means something important,” Basha said. His father had told him so.
Jawen shook her head and walked away, not really understanding what he meant.
A year passed as Basha and Jawen tried to be friends and make up for past mistakes, but that didn’t work out. “My father is in jail!” Basha cried, running up to Jawen one day.
“What? Why?” Jawen asked, turning to face him.
“He got into a fight with your father,” Basha said, his voice and his mind rushing as he tried to explain. “He accused your father of taking too much money from the exchanges between the furniture makers and store owners, and your father got him arrested for civil disobedience, or civil unrest, or something like that.”
“I don’t believe you—my father wouldn’t do that!” Jawen cried, shaking her head. “He would never steal. He’s just trying to protect his livelihood, the thing that keeps himself, and his family, alive. Are you sure he got your father arrested?”
“He did, I’m pretty sure—that’s what Oaka told me!” Basha cried, overexcited and overwhelmed by this sudden development. “They were both fighting, but only my father was arrested. Why is that?”
“I don’t know,” Jawen said, shaking her head. “My father is a good man, and the whole town depends on him. He wouldn’t have anyone arrested for nothing. Your father is just jealous and so are you, balnor!”
Basha gasped and Jawen stiffened, but it was too late for her to take back that hated word.
Basha didn’t say another word. He just turned around and walked away.
Basha didn’t speak to Jawen again for years, and during all that time he heard the whispers and mutterings from other children his age and younger, and once they knew, he knew that he was a useless balnor.
And so he ignored them and continued to coexist with them, while he struggled to deny that everything they said about him might be true.
* * * *
Soon after I turned seventeen I followed Basha into the forest when he ran away from home after finding out he wasn’t Geda’s and Habala’s son. That was a close call, especially with the rats.
After I clandestinely helped the searchers find and bring him safely home, Old Man—having learned how to summon her spirit—contacted Kala, and I was able now to see and hear her.
“They’ve gotten close to locating him,” Old Man told her.
“How close?” Kala asked.
“Close enough, he was just a few feet away from being killed,” he said.
“We need to get him out of here,” Kala said.
“What?” Old Man said, looking up.
I sealed my lips and stayed in the corner during these conversations with Kala. She seemed so strange, detached from all of us, perhaps because she was dead. We could perceive her only faintly from where she appeared in the circle drawn on the floor; she couldn’t move away from it, and her voice came to us from a distance.
“He’s vulnerable,” Kala insisted. “We need to get him away from here, far from other people, so that he can discover his identity without falling into a trap.”
She had a point, but…“He’s too young!” Old Man insisted. “He’s only eight years old! A boy, even one like him, can’t stay away from people all his life. He needs to know friendship, family, love—he needs that.”
Kala slowly nodded. “You’re right,” she said, pacing in her circle. “He can’t be isolated from life, as that’s his strength, his hope, yet it’s dangerous for him. We need him to be the tiger; we need him to find his place. He can’t be sheltered forever, yet he must be protected.” She stopped and turned to Old Man. “We need him to be the tiger, yet it’s too soon. What can we do?”
“We’ll protect him,” Old Man said, “until he’s old enough. That’s all we can do.”
“For how long, Old Man? And when will he be ready?” Kala asked. “Every day is a step in the wrong direction; every year is an eternity so long as Doomba lives. We must prevent Doomba from rising again!”
I squirmed in the corner, wishing to speak but unwilling to face Kala. She scared me, even after what I had faced in the forest.
“Doomba will not rise,” Old Man said, “that I can promise. For now, we’ll do our best to protect Basha until he can lead the battle.”
Old Man sent her back before she could say another word.
Chapter 18
Fish Guts
“When Loqwa, god of death, dug into the ocean floor,
He disturbed not only demons, but also Welda of love
And compassion, Bidana of wealth and fate, and Sitha
Of mystery and magic. They awoke, and rose.”
—Legends of Arria
Basha and Oaka sang nearly in tandem as they walked toward the river, their strides in beat. They were sixteen years old.
Sunlight saturated their surroundings with heat and bright colors this early afternoon. The humidity from the river, the sweat from living things, and the morning dew from the plants moisturized the air.
“Oaka, do you suppose I’ll get into the town militia when we get the chance to try out next year?” Basha asked. His thoughts had turned ahead to the future, as they usually did in times of anticipation, like when he was excited about what the day might bring. The cool, crisp, clean water called out to him, and he bounded ahead, ready to douse himself in the waves he imagined as the water was bound for the ocean, where it would swirl and mingle with the tides.
“Not a chance,” Oaka said with a laugh. “You’ve about as much of a chance of that happening as you do of catching a shark in the river.” Oaka had a more pragmatic way of viewing things, although he was a bit of a jokester.
Each fellow carried a pail of fish bait from worms to meat to lures, puffed up like little minnows that would dance about and make larger fish dart at them. Each also had a fishing pole slung against a shoulder.
“I’ve been practicing.” Basha frowned. “I’ve got most of the moves down for stringent defense, and I think I can make a pretty good attack.”
“Basha, you’re not doing it hard enough yet,” Oaka insisted, stopping for a moment to put down his pail and take up his fishing pole like a sword. He said, “First of all, you’re not angled right.” He adjusted his angle, showing the position he was standing in. He stood close to six feet tall, as tall as an oak sapling. “Then you get too relaxed, you see…” Oaka demonstrated. “…and that’s no good when you don’t even hold your sword high enough.”
“That’s wrong, Oaka,” Basha said, sweating but unable to stand watching anymore. He went over to stand beside his brother. He stood just over five feet tall, about the height of a goat on its hind legs. Basha felt like a goat someti
mes, compared to his older brother.
Holding his own sword up after placing the worm pail down, Basha said, “The arm should be stiff, I agree, but not too stiff at the side.” He demonstrated. “The arm should be held close to the waist, approximately at a forward angle.” He held his arm up as Oaka studied him. “The arm should be loose, loose enough to move forward at a good speed, but not so loose—”
“No, you’ve got to maintain your strength; you’re losing strength with speed!” Oaka exclaimed and then tried to demonstrate this principle by swinging his pole at Basha. “You can’t lose the strength with speed, or else you’ll be dead! Just think, if you were to face Doomba or something like that, how long would you last?”
“What are you talking about?” Basha asked, meeting Oaka’s pole with his own. “You’re not very strong when you fight, Oaka! You move too fast!” he cried, counterbalancing Oaka’s attacks. “You remind me of a monkey or a rooster when you fight! You’d be the one dead!”
Oaka renewed his attack on Basha, “I’m scared half the time, dodging fellows, and then I’m thinking to myself, I’ve got to make up for my lost time with strength, not speed!”
Basha counterattacked, smacking Oaka’s fishing pole. “But then why are you so scared of the other fellows?” he asked, surprised that Oaka could be scared by anything so mundane when sometimes he seemed fearless.
Oaka grunted and then broke away from Basha. “That’s because I’m usually facing big, fat doofuses, like Hastin,” he said, pointing ahead.
Basha blinked and turned around, spotting Hastin coming down the path. He stood almost as tall as Oaka but was twice as wide, with broad shoulders and face, not to mention cheeks and a chin that were getting a little stubbly with a black beard forming. Hastin fought, and even looked, like a bulldog or a great ape sometimes.
“What’s Jawen doing with him?” Basha asked, noticing the young woman strolling along at Hastin’s side, clutching his arm. She wasn’t supposed to be with Hastin. What did Jawen see in Hastin that she didn’t see in him?
“Who cares? She’s just as stuck-up as he is,” Oaka muttered to Basha. “Good afternoon, Hastin, Jawen!” Oaka greeted the pair as they came closer to them. He put his fishing pole back up onto his shoulder.
“Afternnoon,” Hastin said gruffly, stopping abruptly. Jawen halted as well, but she didn’t look up at Oaka or Basha. “Where are you two off to?” he asked suspiciously.
“To the river,” Oaka said, waving his fishing pole for attention. “We’re going to catch us a couple of big fish for dinner tonight.”
Hastin could have easily passed for someone older than eighteen. Maybe she saw a man in Hastin that she didn’t see in Basha? Basha nearly slapped his own face in embarrassment; it was awkward standing in front of Hastin and Jawen, when he didn’t really know what to say to her.
Jawen usually stood in front of him, dancing with the girls at the king’s birthday celebration, while he sang in the boys’ chorus. It had been that way for many years now, and she’d seldom ever looked at him. There was also the more embarrassing memory that he’d…no, he’d not dwell on that; he’d focus only on the positive.
“Big fish?” Jawen suddenly said, though still not looking up at them. “I think you two would want some scrawnier ones to fit inside your mouths and stomachs.” She finally looked up at Oaka, smirking. “Or is it that your mouth is so big it can swallow three whole fish at a time?”
Oaka frowned as Basha groaned. Arria, may you reign in her name, Arria, may you be with us evermore…The anthem’s words seemed to echo in Basha’s mind. Jawen always seemed to have this effect on him.
Hastin gaped at Jawen and then laughed. “That’s a good one, Jawen, my dear!”
“Don’t call me my dear,” Jawen said.
Basha’s ears perked up at this. May the gods Tau, Quela, and all the rest bless you and keep you until Loqwa’s day…
She turned back to Oaka. “The way you two were pirouetting about just now, I thought you were going to port de bras the fish.”
Hastin hooted and hollered. “I don’t know what that means, but yes, that’s exactly what I was thinking of! The dancing, and whatnot,” he exclaimed, once his mind caught up with him.
“Let it go, Hastin.” Jawen sighed.
Oaka, fuming all of this time, said, “Your mouth is so big, Jawen, you’ve…got some nerve coming over here to talk to us like this, when you’re the one here who is a cold fish!”
Basha gasped. Hastin stormed toward Oaka, but Oaka lunged to the side, bent down, grabbed a pail of fish bait, and tossed it at Hastin.
May we never forget what you’ve brought forth unto us. Basha half muttered the verse to himself as Hastin sputtered, covered in fish guts, worms, and mud, with a little fishhook tacked onto his ear. Jawen grimaced and Oaka couldn’t stop laughing as Basha grabbed Oaka’s hand and dragged him off, fishing pail and pole flying.
They ran deeper into the forest to avoid Hastin. “Did you see that?” Oaka cried, laughing even louder. “I got him! I got him, Basha!”
“He could have gotten us,” Basha said, annoyed. “Why did you insult Jawen like that?”
“Jawen! She was insulting us!” Oaka stopped, halting Basha as well. “I had to stand up for us, or risk losing our reputations.” He jerked his hand out of Basha’s grip. “Why didn’t you speak up for us?”
“I didn’t want to fight her,” Basha said.
“You never want to fight her,” Oaka said, snorting before he turned and looked all around them. “Where’s all of our stuff?”
“I didn’t…She’s not worth it,” Basha said.
“That’s the ticket! Leave all our stuff behind! Guess we’re not going fishing anymore!” Oaka yelled before turning and storming away.
Basha looked away and sighed. He should have stood up for himself and Oaka against Hastin, but not Jawen, never Jawen. Just as he went after Oaka, something grabbed his foot, and he nearly tripped. “Oh! Pardon me, Basha,” said a female voice from the bush beside him. “I thought you were Oaka.”
“Sisila!” Oaka cried, coming back to the bush. “What are you doing down there?”
Sisila’s black hair emerged from the bush first, followed by the rest of her. She stood just below Oaka’s chest, shorter than Basha even. She said, “I came here with my brother and Jawen, but then they ran off on their own, and I heard you two coming…Well, I had to grab a hold of you, Oaka.” She smiled. “Who were you two talking about just now?” she asked, eying both of them suspiciously, just like Hastin had.
“No one,” Oaka said, handing over his fishing pole and pail to a still-stunned Basha as he tried to open his mouth. “Does your brother happen to know about us?”
“Why do you ask?” Sisila frowned. “Did he…No, I don’t think so.”
“Never mind,” Oaka said, climbing into the bush with Sisila. “It doesn’t matter. I was hoping to run into you,” he said, disappearing into the greenery with his arms wrapped around her.
“You always say that,” Sisila said, giggling as she vanished too.
Basha sighed again and went off on his own, leaving Oaka and Sisila to their privacy. Oaka should be more careful now about how he handled his relationship with Sisila, especially if Hastin was getting suspicious. Now that he thought about it, it was pretty obvious they were going to the river, fishing poles in hand, but Hastin might have thought Oaka was coming here on a pretense to visit Sisila instead.
“And another thing…Oh. I thought you were Oaka,” Jawen said, coming out from behind a tree.
“Jawen, what were you doing back there?” Basha asked, gasping as he turned around. People were popping up all over the place!
“Where is he? I want to talk to him,” Jawen said.
“Why does everyone think I’m Oaka?” Basha cried, still off on a tangent. “Do I even look like Oaka?” he asked her. “I don’t think I look a thing like him, but now I wonder.”
“I’m sorry, forget it,” Jawen said, turning away from
him.
“No, no, no, wait, wait,” Basha said, stopping her. “I’m sorry for what Oaka called you, I…He never meant it in such a negative way.”
“Negative way? What could be more negative than being called a cold fish?” Jawen said sarcastically, turning back to him. “I’m sorry, but he just irks me.” She shuddered in disgust and paused. “So, how about you, Basha? Are you doing okay?” she asked slowly.
“Well, sort of,” Basha said, kicking his boots against the ground and looking down. “I’ve been keeping busy. You know, doing sword-work, practicing for the militia tryouts, working at the inn, keeping busy.” He sighed to himself. “Doing nothing but what I’ve done for the past four years.”
“Are you going to be in the Border Guards?” Jawen asked. “Or staying at the inn?”
“I don’t know,” Basha said, shrugging as he continued to kick the ground. “I hope to get away and join the Border Guards, but I might be stuck at the inn. I’ve tried my hand at some other trades, craftsmen on my mother’s side of the family, but I couldn’t make it. The clothes I made wouldn’t fit right, the chairs would fall apart, and the clocks would unwind. I couldn’t fix any of it,” he said, hoping to elicit a smile from her.
“The storeowners on my father’s side of the family took me in after a little while, but I couldn’t sell anything either. I got orders mixed up, things would smash, and then I yelled at a customer and a fellow employee. I was a bad employee overall,” he said, smiling a little bit when she smiled as well.
“Basha, you’re hopeless,” Jawen said.
“No, but, Jawen, the thing is, I’m good at sword-fighting,” Basha said. “That seems to be my greatest strength, and I do have a good education.” He usually didn’t boast, but being around Jawen made him want to stand up a little taller and impress her.
“Basha, you might be smart, but you’ve limited choices,” Jawen said, stopping him. “Even I know that.”
The Smiling Stallion Inn Page 25
