You cringed when the two of them slipped into these discussions. If the Guardians had a means for peace, why was it not actively shared? Wei wanted to understand. Your small daughter sat without a flinch in front of her giant father. The disagreement simmered. You waited for it to boil over. You waited for Leit to declare his authority but he refrained. He spoke to your child as an equal.
You haven’t seen what I’ve seen, said Leit.
I have seen what you have not as well, said Wei.
She told of a child she’d found in the forest. The girl wept piteously but without sound. Wei asked the child why she cried but she wouldn’t speak. Shame wrapped her like a cloak. She had been beaten without mercy with a belt. She had dropped an egg. Her father had beat her as her mother kept her back turned at her bowl. No supper for you! Get out of my sight! He had screamed at her.
An old wound split open. A cry thrust itself against your clenched jaw. Wei regarded you for a moment, then looked at her father.
I sang to the girl, and she crept into my open arms, said Wei. I saw how often she’d been beaten. I also saw her father find dark corners and pound his own head with his fists. He is ashamed of himself and doesn’t want to beat her but believes, as he was taught, a child learns through punishment. I saw her mother knocked senseless because of her child’s beatings, although no hand had touched her. She goes through the motions of the day and says nothing until it or the next one is done. She believes without him she has nowhere to go and she and the child will starve.
She’s right, Wei, you said. This was a truth for every woman of every station in your life before.
Her fear is frank in her circumstances, said Wei.
I know this story. It’s a mundane horror by now. Our Voices and warriors hear, see, and feel it told in all its forms over and over again, said Leit.
Do you know in their deepest hearts they wish to know better? asked Wei.
The cry whimpered from your lips. Wei turned one palm toward you. You felt your pulse change.
They know better, said Leit.
In most cases, they know what they do is cruel and hurtful. For those who wish not to be, they’ve never been taught other ways.
She’s right, you said to him. You remembered all you had to unlearn when you found your new home. You knew there were still matters to unravel.
Ahpa, I must share the truth as I see it. We’ve waited for the world to join us but they don’t have the knowledge to do so. Our example is here, but few notice. Our warriors have protected Egnis from the fear and misunderstanding of others. But we cannot expect our warriors to protect us from those who fear and misunderstand us and our promise. The war wasn’t the first or the last—nor was it the one that must be fought. Your scar bears proof, said she.
Leit flinched. Wei invoked what no one, no one, dared speak.
I know your wish to deny residence to those born away is meant to protect us. You want to preserve the integrity of our ways. That’s noble, rational, and sound. But Ahpa, we can’t expect love, cooperation, and peace to reign if we contain our knowledge as we do.
What are you saying? asked Leit.
We must begin to live among those born away and welcome anyone who wishes to live with us.
That is a beautiful but naïve idea, said Leit.
Dangerous and hopeful, too, said Wei. She smiled.
You wept from grief and pride. Had you spoken that way to your father, he would have slapped you for defiance. You looked at your daughter and your spouse passionate for the same ends, differing in their means. Theirs was a higher love too rare beyond your borders.
Ahma, what do you think? Our conversation has clearly moved you, said Wei.
I’m of two minds about the matter. I don’t know, you said.
They tried to secure your opinion, but you had no firm one. You were a Guardian then, by choice, and wanted the ways protected. You once, by birth, were not a Guardian, and wanted another way to be. Your own house was as divided as your heart. The latter caused more strife. Knowing what you knew, how could you choose?
Well, you don’t have to decide now, do you? said Wei. I didn’t have my ideas together for the last Assembly. I intend to speak at the next one.
You have six years to prepare, said Leit.
As do you, said she.
She kissed your hand then kissed her father. Her light loose dress fluttered at her side as she walked across the room and through the front door.
What a formidable daughter I have, bold as her mother, said Leit.
WEI ENDED HER DUTY ON THE TRAILS THE WINTER BEFORE SHE TURNED fifteen. Your little daughter came home finally as a young woman. She enjoyed the company of friends and the admiration of young men. From a distance, you watched her consider the handsome options. You discovered an unexpected well of envy that sprang from the memory of your life before. No young woman of your station was given the latitude allowed your daughter and her friends. | had it been, would you have sat at Heydar’s table? | Leit basked in the nostalgia of youth even as he glowered at the boys who stood on your home’s threshold.
Your daughter knew of the collection of histories and tales you had worked to gather through the years. She agreed to chronicle some of her experiences as a Voice. You asked to teach her how to write them herself. She tried, but the attempts were frustrating. Her unusual sight as you understood it hampered her dexterity and precision. She tried to comprehend your texts through touch. She discovered she had little sensitivity to do so. She was sorry to disappoint you, but she wished to concentrate on the abilities she possessed.
This gives you pleasure, Ahma. Continue. I think there’s a reason you persist.
And what is that? you asked.
Oh, the passage of seasons will tell, I suppose.
During the next few years, Wei served as Aza did. | beloved Edik had died | She had a reputation as a great healer, young as she was. Yet Wei expected more of herself and her gifts. She continued to ponder the possibility of showing others the Guardians’ ways. Wei traveled to other settlements to speak to Voices and elders across the known world. She used the gaps, but sometimes she didn’t. You understood to leave her alone when she sat in her room with her palms open.
You respected what you didn’t comprehend.
There is interest, Ahma, said she. Others feel as I do. Not many, but enough to matter. The next Assembly will have a vibrant debate, I think.
She was fearless, your Wei. Courageous and inquisitive. What was, was not what would always be, she believed. She believed this as if it were her next breath.
The Guardians would be the least of her worries by comparison. You had been born away. You remembered what power, no matter how weak, others cherished. To release that called to chaos. Without might—over one’s will or body, that of another person or a group—what control could there be? You had learned the power of love and trust. You were long suspicious of the lessons, trained as you were to accept the means of dominance.
When she was nineteen years old, Wei asked you to join her at the Assembly. This was a surprise. You had not been invited by the leaders. Neither was she, she reminded you. She had requested an audience. Such appeals were rarely denied, and hers was not. That she was Leit’s daughter and a Voice must have made the leaders curious.
I wish for you to serve as witness, said she. You were born away and can speak to the difference between the ways.
But I’m torn, you said.
You were grateful for the Guardians’ welcome despite your origins. Wei knew by then, from your own words, what role you’d had in the war. The inherent peace you’d felt was what you had intended to protect. You hadn’t meant to threaten it. When you arrived at the settlement, you had been rendered apart from all you’d known. You were willing to surrender to another structure of order. You were desperate but also humbled. You availed yourself to another way of being.
I was drawn to these ways, but I was also ready for them, you said.
Wei asked you to
explain.
My daughter, you were born into a life where fear was not ever-present, you said. You have never experienced lack of any kind. Those around you understood the meaning of love. When you served the trails, you witnessed the opposite. Remember the man who beat his child who dropped the egg? To him, his world is the real one. Ours is a fantasy. We could show him our ways, but he would resist. All of us born away do, to some extent. What were held as truths are revealed as lies. We have to confront those who ruled over us, what agency we ourselves had in our lives, what possibilities our physical bodies and ancestral lineages held open or kept closed.
I admire what you want to do, Wei. But I think the approach must be gradual. The shock would be too great for everyone if many new people moved into the settlements. The suspicion could transform into real danger if large numbers of our people tried to move into outside our villages.
I hadn’t considered that, said Wei.
My caution isn’t meant to temper your zeal but to hone it. Go to the Assembly and explain your vision. Regardless of their response, be true to yourself. I know all too well the consequences of regret.
You didn’t accompany her. She said she understood but that she was disappointed. You would have given persuasive testimony. While she and Leit had been away, you’d thought of Sisay’s portent. Wei was now taking the first steps toward her great purpose.
SOON AFTER THAT ASSEMBLY, LEIT WAS ELECTED TO SERVE ON YOUR SETtlement’s Elder Council, one of nine members. His known opposition to opening the settlement to outsiders echoed the wishes of many neighbors.
This wasn’t as contentious as it might have been elsewhere. Everyone struggled with the possibility. Wei’s proposal challenged the Guardians’ understanding of themselves. Had their wish for peaceful communities become an act of isolation? For generations, they had built new settlements when needed. They had little contact with the villages closest to them. The war had only deepened their desire to be left alone. Wei openly questioned the wisdom of their practices.
You held the tension of all sides.
Leit contended that the risk was too great to allow in large groups of those born away. He cautioned those who wished to leave about the circumstances they would encounter.
After Wei had returned from her first Assembly meeting, she was ardent. She was admired for her compassion and intention. However, the plausibility of her proposal raised questions and worries. She began to organize discussions within the settlement. You watched your daughter listen more than speak, but when she spoke, you felt her power. Her force was like water. It was constant—at times slow, at times swift. As some came to share her ideas, a small group of them traveled to other settlements. Within a few years, Wei had friends across the known world. They advocated a new perspective on how to bring peace.
One of her new friends became her spouse. Olen was a young farmer. He had been born away, welcomed as a foundling. You had already known him from your help in the fields. You expected the couple to remain in the settlement. They were among the first young people who moved.
Leit struggled with a sense of betrayal. The village Wei and Olen had chosen—an easy three-day walk away—was the one that had revealed the settlement’s location during the war. Wei and her Guardian friends had visited on several occasions. Their gesture was one of reconciliation. The agreement was for a temporary stay. Skilled people from the settlement would teach and learn from their people.
I know most neighbors here prefer to leave customs as they are, said Wei. One day that may change. Right now there’s another place willing to try. And I want to try.
Wei and Olen packed their belongings and moved with fifteen other Guardians. Aged though you were | alive and healthy still, fifty-five | , you traveled to see her, and they back to you. They seemed happy and purposeful, although their work was difficult. They discovered tempers they didn’t know they had. Wei found the abuse of authority painful to witness and resistant to suggestions of kinder means.
That doesn’t surprise you, does it? asked Wei of you.
Not in the least, you said.
When they had Katya, you hoped they would move back to the settlement. They did not. However, Katya spent seasons at a time with you and Leit when Wei traveled to other settlements. With her ahpapa, Katya roamed the forest to see its surprises. With you, her ahmama, she learned to read and write her mother’s tongue. She was excited to learn and took materials back with her to her home. Upon her visits, she would read to you chronicles of her childhood days. As she grew older, you allowed her to read your collection. Some texts were recorded before her mother was born.
Then you began to do what the old do. You told stories of your life before. Rare were thoughts of the people and places where you lived the beginning of your life. Nearing the end, they returned to you. Not all was laid bare. Not all did you reveal. You told of how you became a mapmaker as if it were a wonder tale. You explained how you found the Guardian settlement far away and how you wished to protect it. The quest and the exile surfaced with moments of beauty and curiosity. As Katya became older, you spiraled through the accounts again. You threaded into them details you had spared before.
Tell the truth.
You didn’t tell the whole truth. You tried not to speak ill of those presumed dead. For those you had affection, you emphasized the warm feelings. Some you would not mention at all.
You have great stories, Ahmama. You should write yours on the sheets, said Katya.
They’re of no interest but to you, you said.
Then do it for me and your grandchildren to come.
You smiled but gave no answer.
There was pleasure in the telling but also sadness. When you were alone, lost grief traveled to find you. It took you by the throat and refused to tell you its name. You were needful of Leit’s old arms at night. He couldn’t shelter you from what lurked within.
THE LATCH LIFTED FROM THE BOBBIN. THE DOOR OPENED. YOU EXpected your spouse but saw your daughter. You stood to greet the surprise. You put your hands on her silver black white head and kissed her.
Later, she would tell you she knew you would have refused. She was correct | perhaps not | but the risk was nevertheless one she thought worthy to take.
Ahma, said Wei. I’ve brought someone to see you. She had to repeat what she said three times. You hadn’t heard your native language in so long. As you stared at her, she stroked your forehead with gentleness, then kissed the skin. Wei disappeared outside.
Through your door walked the image of your father. An elderly specter, gaunt, but bright-eyed. The shock made you wonder if Wei had defied reason and brought back the dead. The image spoke your name.
Aoife.
Your name spoken the way you remembered it by your people, your tongue, and his voice without the brittle strain of old age.
Ciaran, you said.
You embraced. You had missed him and had no idea how much until he stood there. He carried a satchel on his shoulder.
My wife believes I’m away on a brief trip. She has no clue of the distance, said he. Unless this is a dream.
You assured him it was not. Welcome to the mystery.
The old tongue came back to you but it was slow, slow. A creature roused from sleep to emerge in words. You encouraged him to speak first, to accustom you to the sound again. You exchanged the pleasantries of strangers while you made tea. Then you sat close enough to touch him.
He said your parents had been dead many years. You assumed so. He said he married not long after you were exiled and thought you would like her. The pairing was fortunate and complementary. She came from a good family, well propertied. She kept a cheerful home as best she could.
So this wife I took a-bed but nothing came of it, said Ciaran with a slight grin.
You thought he was making a joke, but he was not. He was to give you a revelation blunted by humor.
We had children. We raised the twins.
Thoughts failed. You couldn’t imagine what had hap
pened, so he told you everything.
Painful, Aoife, to tell you, said he, but this is the truth. I want you to know. We may never see one another again and for so long I’ve missed you.
Ciaran had believed you were dead. As the kingdom prepared for the war, Raef gained power within the ranks. There had been talk of your imprisonment, but the official public decision was for exile. Raef himself arranged for the escorts out. The younger prince never said so, but even then Ciaran suspected a hidden intent. Wyl seemed more distraught than angry, as if he’d been swept away and dazed by the lack of footing. He agreed to the exile because it meant your life would be spared. Your father claimed he understood the reason for exile and supported it with no objection.
Your mother keened at your loss. Where will she go? she asked her son. Where will my lamb go? | my lamb, she called you her lamb in sweet moments | Ciaran did his best to comfort her. Mother, remember that she lived roughly and through all manner of terrain. If anyone can survive, it’s she. Your mother imagined horrors beyond death. Milkmaid. Washerwoman. Chambermaid. Beggar. Used woman. Ciaran couldn’t bear to tell her the truth. The night of your exile, he was told the escorts had been instructed to kill you and bring your heart as proof of the deed. Wyl wasn’t informed until it was too late. Days later, even your father couldn’t bear the sight of the raw leathery organ one of the escorts held as evidence.
They were so ordered, but one of the men let me go, and I ran, you said.
He burst into tears. You took his hands. He tried to pull away but you gently held on. How long it had been since you’d felt the pain of seeing him cry. Finally, as you never had before, you were able to comfort him.
Soothed, Ciaran continued.
Not soon after you were gone, the twins became an issue. Wyl was free to marry, properly. It wouldn’t do for him to be saddled with the children of his traitor wife, exiled in shame. The Queen had little affection for them. Sweet children though they were. As if they had been responsible for the troubles that had unfolded. Ciaran knew Wyl didn’t wish to give them up. However, even though he was King, he couldn’t hold against his brother and his mother and their aspirations for the kingdom. So he relinquished them to your mother’s care. Father was furious. He didn’t want the bother in the house. Old man. Too old. Mother was glad to have them and seemed joyful in their presence. Wyl went to see them, but Mother said he shouldn’t. It was selfish to confuse them. If he wouldn’t stand for them as the legitimate issue they were, better they were told they were orphans than treated like bastards. This Mother told Ciaran and King Wyl himself.
The Mapmaker's War Page 20
