The Land's Whisper

by Monica Lee Kennedy

“Nuresti. What do you know?”

  “A little,” Brenol replied honestly. Darse had told stories, but Darse’s tales were pale half-truths before the vibrant and often terrifying reality of Massada.

  Colvin sighed. His words came out wrenched, like he was pressing them through a finely woven sieve. “They are the few people who are connected to the land in a bizarre way. One per terrisdan—at least now—and it lasts from birth to death. They have some kind of connection that allows them to talk with the land. It’s almost gruesome to see. It seems to consume them—the nuresti.”

  “But you say that’s not what I am,” Brenol said, allowing the sentence to dangle.

  “No.” The visnat shook his head. “No. I’m not sure what you are. But you have something… Can people talk to the land as you do on Alatrice?”

  Brenol nearly laughed. “Not at all.”

  “Darse cannot do what you do.”

  “No.”

  Colvin paused, considering. “Did Sim? Perhaps this strange half-connection is just your world meeting ours. And Darse cannot have it because he is of Massada too.”

  Brenol shrugged.

  Colvin’s blue eyes came up to meet Brenol’s green. They were clear, but Brenol saw it: a twitch of emotion encased in the sea of blue.

  “You knew one, didn’t you? A nurest?”

  Colvin’s lips jerked. His look was a mix of astonishment and appraisal. And sorrow. “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  His eyelids closed, and his voice was a feeble whisper into the dark. “My sister.”

  Brenol itched to ask but waited; the pain of the memory was clearly too sharp to touch just yet.

  After a few minutes, Colvin spoke again, and his voice was hollow and flat. “She loved Garnoble from the moment she came into the world sucking air and flailing. Yes, she loved Garnoble. But it’s a burden, and a strange one, too… She never seemed peaceful or content. And the things she said…” He shook his head with a slow despair.

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. She was strange. Most of Coltair was frightened by her, not that she cared. All she could think of was her beloved terrisdan. The maralane alone showed concern when she disappeared. I had no one, but they helped me. I searched all of Garnoble and more for her. That was nine orbits ago. And a new nurest lives now. It was discovered within the last few moons… My sister is dead, and I alone remember.”

  Brenol gingerly placed his hand on Colvin’s small shoulder. The visnat’s face was etched with pain, evident even in the dark. “What was her name?”

  Colvin gave a small smile. “Gina.”

  “Gina,” Brenol repeated softly.

  The two syllables fell upon the world around them and seemed to elicit a drooping weakness. It was faint, but Brenol heard the soft rustle of the land: “I remember, too.”

  Colvin surveyed the boy’s face. “It spoke didn’t it?”

  “Garnoble remembers,” Brenol replied.

  Colvin laid both hands palm down upon the soil. He inhaled deeply and whispered into the night, “I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for what you made her…but thank you for remembering, too.”

  The grasses swayed, but the land was silent.

  “This is why I am not close with many here,” Colvin said to Brenol. “They remember her negatively, while I can only love her.”

  “Colvin?” Brenol asked after a time.

  “Yes.”

  “I will be careful.”

  “I want you to take this.”

  Brenol squinted in the dark. A finely crafted silver band lay in a circle atop the rough hand. Designed for a small wrist, the glinting metal was braided in a smoothness akin to flowing water. A row of gems ranged down its width in a rainbow of color and sparkled in the soft light of the moons. It was exquisite, incomparable. Brenol glanced up in time to catch the wistful expression upon his companion’s face; this bracelet was cherished.

  Colvin extended it with shaking fingers in offering. “It was Gina’s. I want you to take it as a pledge to be careful. And to remember how treacherous the terrisdan connections can be.”

  Brenol shook his head deliberately and covered Colvin’s hand with his own. He pushed the delicate band back into the cup of Colvin’s palm with his fingertips and closed his friend’s hand firmly with both of his own. “No. I think it’s important for you to have. You loved Gina. I could never take this. But I’ll be careful. I will, Colvin.”

  The visnat granted a slight nod and leaned back against the trunk, fully blanketing himself in the night’s shadows. Brenol could not see his expression, but the boy did not feel the need to grapple with emotions he could not comprehend.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “In good accord,” Colvin replied in a whisper.

  They sat under Veri’s glow for close to an hour. Then, silently, the two stood, embraced, and turned their toes to their beds.

  CHAPTER 6

  The place of a cartontz? To protect and never fail.

  Another shall rise up to take his place should he fall.

  -Genesifin

  Darse awoke and drew in the rich fragrances of the Gardenia: the loam, the breezes, the sprouting grass, and breakfast sizzling to life somewhere. The night had been long, but sometime in the bleak isolation and shame, he had discovered a peace. It was a makeshift one, but one that he opted to accept nonetheless: he had come for answers and was at least finding some. The raw pain stung, but its airing felt good and right, like the sharp spring air blowing through his house after a bitter winter.

  So this is the big mystery. My parents, the curse.

  Suddenly a memory leaped up in a rush upon his senses, and every sound, smell, and touch lay before him almost as vividly as it had in passing:

  The older man stared at his hands, avoiding the boy’s sea-blue eyes, as though fearing they too would stare back in judgment. His voice was slow, hesitant. “She was so sick, Darse. So sick. And I thought I could save her.”

  The fingers wrung together, shaking. His father peered at him, but only for a moment, before wearily rubbing his eyes and face. “I traveled to a place—Selet—where your mama was from. I thought…”

  All of Darse hung suspended: he longed to soothe him but feared that the smallest interruption would make the thin lips cease their movement.

  “I was wrong,” he said with a sudden, bitter firmness. “I stole something from Selet.”

  “What was it?” Darse whispered.

  “A tenralily pod.” The words escaped his mouth with a reluctance, as though the sounds themselves were vile.

  “What’s that?”

  “I thought it might make her better.” His bass again dipped in sorrowful regret. “But when I took it, the land got very angry. It… Well, we argued.”

  “And the pod?”

  “Selet gave it to me, but I was too late.”

  “She was so sick,” Darse whispered to himself.

  “So sick,” his father affirmed. He beckoned the boy forward with a crook of the wrist, and Darse settled himself beside the man.

  “I’m sorry, Darse. I’d do anything to bring your mama back…” His voice softened as he spoke to the shadows, almost unaware of the boy at his side. “I let her die alone.”

  Darse bit his lip, waiting for his father to return to the present. He eventually stood, leaving the youth in silence, but his smoky green eyes had remained haunted with a guilt he refused to release.

  The memory faded, and he lifted his face to the Massadan sun, amazed at the warmth and light soothing his closed lids. The heat felt good, a consoling contrast to the dark musings.

  Well, I am here. Hopefully Selet’s memory is short.

  A saying from Alatrice sprung up in his mind, and he found his lips mouthing the words: “To tread for life, one must forget the steps.”

  All right, old man. Let it go.

  “I can live in the past and I can live in the dream world.” He sucked air in purposefully. “But I want to live
here, now. In this real moment. I won’t be my father.”

  The last lingering fear over Veronia leaked out from him, and he breathed easier. In its absence he knew his true task. He must return Brenol to Alatrice, and heeding Ordah was the first step in doing so.

  He sighed, opened his eyes, and squinted through thin slits to take in the giant dome of blue. He inhaled deeply and turned back into the barn. It was time to start the morning.

  ~

  The spirit peered down blankly at the wolf, reading truth on his miserable features. It paused, considering, but soon resumed its efforts.

  The wolf, Lador, writhed as the spirit wrenched his leg into a terrible twist. He yelped in pain, but the woman before him managed to simultaneously anchor his neck to the ground in a formidable pin.

  “What do you really want?” Lador panted. His eyes were wide with fury and helplessness.

  “I told you. I want to return. I want to get out of this world. I need access to the portals.”

  The wolf glared hard at the woman. She was a human who lived in the next village. He even knew her name—Sefi—for this was his sealtor route. She had a soumme, children. He had delivered messages to her and her mate more than once. He was certain this could only be trickery. “You are mad. Who are you asking for?”

  Sefi ground her teeth. The sound drew the wolf’s fur to a rise.

  “Tell me how to open them,” she ordered softly. “Tell me. Or I will set fire to every hair on your wretched body.”

  The wolf’s face contorted in confusion. He spoke slowly, attempting to gain understanding from her reactions. “The maralane do not keep every portal open. Some they deem unnecessary. Some they even destroy.”

  Sefi snarled. “I know as much.”

  “Which world do you seek?”

  “Haife,” she replied. The word lingered on her tongue, and a brief spark of desperate hope hung in the cold, dark eyes.

  “I know nothing of this world,” Lador lied.

  “But would another?”

  The wolf sensed a slackening in her grip as she spoke, and with an abrupt leap, he lunged in a powerful thrust to snap at her arm. His teeth sank solidly into her flesh, and he swung his neck with force to tear the soft tissue.

  He made to move into another attack but stopped at the sound of her laughter. His jaw gaped open, and he released her tattered forearm.

  “You cannot stop me like that,” she said mildly. “Tell me how to get back.”

  Lador did not reply. He was speechless.

  Sefi kicked the wolf, and his body slammed back into a tree. A terrible cracking sounded in his keen ears, and his body sagged limply, pain flaring through his senses. He knew immediately that several ribs had broken.

  The wolf breathed in with agony, but with the rush of pain, a new clarity came. Yes, he could perceive it now. The black fingernail beds, the darkening irises, the stench of fire, the strange agility and strength. This was not the woman from the village, but something else entirely.

  Lador paused, considering. I could send her to any world. And be done with it. At least have her out of here.

  He did not even have the energy to shake his head at these tempting thoughts. Instead, he bared his teeth and, knowing what it would cost him, still spoke truth. “That portal was destroyed long ago. There is no exit.”

  It is true then, the spirit thought. I have no hope. No future.

  Sefi’s face fell, but swiftly her eyes bore into him with cold fury. “That is what they have all said. Every one of them. You will tell me something else, or you will die like they did.”

  With the clarity that comes with approaching death, he drew courage. His previous sealtors had remained strong. Whatever her evil purpose was, he also would not give in.

  “I told you. The maralane decided the world was trash. They destroyed your portal.”

  She roared in fury, sending her head back in a dramatic show. She looked vicious and wild.

  Three, send someone to vanquish this evil, he prayed, and he waited for her to finish him.

  ~

  Departure day for Brenol and Darse arrived inevitably. The misty air blanketed the dawn, and Darse rose and gazed out again upon the Gardenia. It was rich with pollen and spring’s morning dew. An unpredicted nostalgia wrapped him and nearly drew him to upend both pack and plans.

  This place…there’s something about it, he mused. The land, the people, the work, the sun…I feel grounded somehow. The labor doesn’t age me like it always did on Alatrice.

  I could almost stay here forever.

  He gathered up the memories of their time here as if scooping up loose flowers into a nosegay and felt his chest tighten at the prospect of leaving. It was no longer due to fear—he blushed again at the picture of his gut-wrenching conversation with Colvin—but simply due to love for this people and their way of life. Slowly, he straightened his spine and gathered his resolve.

  “Time,” he muttered. “I need to get Bren back somehow.”

  Darse brushed at a few stray pieces of straw that clung to him from the night’s slumber. He wore his gardening clothes, as they protected well from the afternoon rays and would be far less conspicuous than the foreign styles of Alatrice. He hefted the burlap pack to his shoulders and stretched his back. The visnati had proven to be as generous as ever, providing provisions, gifts, and clothing with weight and travel in mind. He silently praised their foresight. Even his pockets tinkled comfortingly with currency.

  The goodness of the visnati was more than he could have ever imagined that first day on the path. Did I really think my dreams prophetic? He shook his head derisively as he recalled perceiving malevolence in every eye and corner. I’m just an old man, nearing the end of a hard life, wishing to resolve these long-held secrets.

  The land here seems no more alive than on Alatrice. Why would Veronia be different?

  He let the thought trickle away and trod forward with a somber confidence.

  The river’s bank was lined with color and movement. The entire town had woken with the dawn to bid farewell and now tramped along the water’s edge with laughter and food and music. It could have been a festival. Darse’s blue eyes twinkled as he moved to join Brenol, already amongst the people. The youthful face was filled with emotion. Darse wondered at the cause, but there was barely a moment for a silent breath let alone private conversation, so he held his tongue and briefly rested his hand upon the boy’s shoulder with the hope it was nothing severe.

  Brenol barely glanced up before returning his eyes to the crowd. Darse observed him carefully, yet whatever the boy sought, he did not find, for the youth’s gaze continued to sweep the lines of people for the remainder of the festivities.

  The party entered into the heat of morning, and breakfast pressed against belts, but finally the duo was ushered onto their raft. It was a small and simple craft, yet constructed with the meticulous attention the visnati gave all their labors. Made from deep-red lumber, it smelled sharply of fresh wood and sap and was a shock of color upon the dark blue river. The two shuffled carefully aboard, and waved and shouted their farewells.

  “Colvin isn’t here,” Darse mentioned wistfully.

  Brenol scanned the bank as he had for the morning’s duration. “I know.”

  They pushed off with the supplied oars and allowed Pearia to carry them from what had quickly become their home.

  ~

  Rafting proved to be nearly as simple as the visnati had described. The water cut its path smoothly and with an easy pace, allowing the travelers to accustom themselves to their oars and balance. They slipped into the water when the sun beat hottest, clambering back aboard to dry in the breeze, and meals were either simple stores of dried fruit from their packs or fish caught on the bank during rests. Darse had glimpsed such moments of mirth and companionship on Alatrice, but the drudgery and tension that had marked his life there had always overwhelmed them. Here all seemed plain, and Pearia gave him a further grounding he had not expected, for even t
he unsettling history of his parents trickled away in the continually gliding waters. He swelled with a peace, an ease, and soaked in the cobalt Massadan sky with the relish of an imprisoned man set free.

  And I still get Bren here, too, he thought with guilty pleasure.

  It was not the first time Darse had harbored a secret gratitude over Brenol’s presence, for it seemed only right to share all that was good with the son of his heart. Massada was a new home, and he needed Brenol with him. Darse would face the difficulties of returning the boy to his mother when he could, but he planned to enjoy his companionship until that point.

  “Darse?”

  The man blinked, coming out of his reverie. “What is it?”

  “Tell me about Alatrice,” Brenol said quietly.

  Darse raised his brow and peered over at the boy. Brenol held his paddle idly upon his lap, and his expression was clouded.

  “What part?”

  Brenol frowned. “All of it?”

  “Are you thinking about our conversation when we first arrived?”

  Brenol nodded.

  Darse sighed. “I guess I should’ve talked to you about this before. I don’t know what I was trying to accomplish with silence.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Except that the less a kid knows, the less likely he’s going to draw attention.” But he’s not really a kid anymore, he reminded himself.

  Darse inhaled, trying to order his words. “There are the kingdoms, yes?”

  “Five.”

  “Right,” Darse continued. “And conscription works the same for the whole of Alatrice, save the isle of Trest. There enrollment is not mandatory, but most still do it. They seem to have a strong cultural sense of patriotism.”

  “But it’s the same in Paraff where we live,” the boy argued.

  Darse looked at Brenol incredulously. “Have you really thought that this entire time?”

  Brenol nodded sheepishly.

  Darse shook his head, muttering, “I thought all their propaganda was ridiculous, but it really works.” He sat up straighter, and quizzed the boy. “In our kingdom, Paraff, what happens when a baby boy is born?”

  “The family gets a boon.”

  “Yes. Three hundred drales. It is an enormous sum. And then every orbit following the birth, there is a stipend of fifteen drales until the child turns eight, right? After that begins the taxation or apprenticing period until the boy comes of age. Baby girls receive a half boon, and pay half the conscription tax usually.”