The Land's Whisper

by Monica Lee Kennedy

  Brenol moved to follow, but then a rustle of a word caught at his ears: “—me?”

  He stopped and, spurred by some instinct, reached down to touch the dirt with finger and palm, as one would stroke the side of a frightened mare. He waited.

  After several minutes, the rustle came again.

  “You hear me?”

  Brenol caressed the earth, speaking in a hush that was hardly audible to Darse, standing but a stride away with a look of mingled worry and wonder on his face. “Yes. I am Bren.”

  “Stonia.”

  A thought occurred to the boy. “May we pass through?”

  The ground rumbled in a soft acceptance, and the world suddenly bore welcome. Darse had not heard the voice, but the quake he felt. His eyes grew wide as the land around him emanated invitation, opening like a flower.

  Darse peered at the boy warily, yet he could not deny the truth: he was impressed.

  Brenol mouthed his thanks, and the two resumed their pursuit of firewood.

  Once lunch was cooking, Darse met Brenol’s eyes. “That was incredible,” the man said softly.

  Brenol smiled. “A little different than Veronia.”

  “That was more right. I…I am…” Darse shook his head in wonder. There was something astounding about what had occurred so naturally in that moment… It seemed nothing like the nurest connection. Brenol’s eyes had remained clear and unclouded. Not once did he shudder under the duress of ecstasy or emotion as he had so frequently in Veronia. Instead, the communication appeared to be a natural skill. A respect blossomed in Darse’s chest. Is this really a boy, he mused. Can I truly call him a child?

  “Colvin thought it might be because I’m from Alatrice,” Brenol suggested.

  Darse pondered briefly. “And maybe my da had it too?”

  “Yeah,” confirmed Brenol, “And you don’t have it because you’re part Massadan.”

  “It’s an interesting thought,” Darse mused.

  “But for what purpose?” Brenol asked. He shrugged and turned, unable to pair words to the complexity of what he felt. He bent and began to rummage in his pack.

  Suddenly his insides flared with hot, impulsive greed. Desire surged and poured through him, ripping through rational thought and resolve. His eyes darted about the campsite frantically. Go back, everything in his person seemed to scream. Go back.

  The intensity of the sensation brought a sheen of sweat upon his young forehead, neck, spine.

  Go back to Veronia, his blood boiled. Go back.

  Brenol bit his tongue until it bled. Shame burned hot in his heart as he fought the desire to sprint toward Veronia. Tears silently seared his cheeks, and the boy felt utterly incapable of resistance.

  Slowly, slowly, the clawing hunger eased, and the pack in hand returned to focus. He could no longer recall what he had been seeking. He wiped his face dry and inhaled slowly.

  Darse, busy with the meal preparations, did not perceive anything askew. He handed over Brenol’s steaming portion a moment later, and the boy took it without a word.

  After lunch, Brenol silently boarded the raft and felt the river whisk him further away from the only thing he craved. He said nothing to Darse. The monster of his heart could not be revealed to the light.

  ~

  The river was gradually joined by several tributaries trickling down the mountainsides. They had been told the flow would end in Lake Cabel, and by evening the following day the two were poling their way through the muddy rush. The delta came into view within an hour, and Cabel opened up to their vision.

  It was a decently sized lake—several matroles across its girth—but it could not compare with the massive body of Ziel. It rippled and shook with light, tiny waves lapping at the shore. The water was a deep gray-blue, like a stormy sky, and the banks were rocky and spotted with trees.

  The two found they could no longer pole in Cabel’s depths, so they both disrobed, jumped in, and tugged the light craft forward by her ropes. They spied a dock, but as it would have added to their swim, they headed for the closer bank instead. Their arms and legs ached by the time they arrived upon shore, and they advanced with faltering steps. They abandoned their efforts to lug her further and left Hula to sway and grind upon the stony beach as she met the soft kiss of current.

  Darse rescued their packs and threw them upon the dry land before slumping in a sodden heap beside Brenol. The sun was sinking, and cool breezes played upon their damp skin, but still they did not move, choosing instead to stare off in a daze of exhaustion. Finally, Darse could no longer ignore the goose bumps clothing his skin. He roused them both, knowing it would only grow colder—and quickly.

  They donned their packs, and tripped up the slope. As they reached the top of the rise, they walked along the water’s edge until the dock became more focused. The darkening pier had on first sight appeared deserted, but now it was evident that a figure rested amongst the boating gear and posts. He was the first person they had seen in Stonia, and they peered at him with a wary curiosity. He was an aged man, bronze and wrinkled, with matching white hair and eyebrows, seated upon an upended bucket and drinking steaming coffee out of a tin cup while eating bread. His eyes sparkled in amusement.

  “What’s funny?” asked Brenol defensively. The sharp sensation of powerlessness still pricked his nerves.

  The man casually spread his lips into a smile. His teeth—what were left of them—were jagged and white. “Hula, right?” He extended a finger to their beached raft. Even in the growing darkness, it was clear upon the shore. “Hula makes her path down every moon, sometimes more.” His eyes slid to Darse, sparkling. “One would think that the old fool would tire of naming each raft he made after his mother.”

  Darse shrugged his shoulders and pushed out his bottom lip. “Maybe he really loves her.”

  White eyebrows bounced up in laughter. “I’ve met her once,” he said, face glowing. “I can’t be sure, but I bet he likes to think of people downriver burning her every few septspan.”

  Darse chuckled despite himself. “Is there an inn in the area?” He glanced around to the forest surrounding Cabel. The scenery was far from hopeful.

  Nonetheless, the man assented with a gentle nod of his head. He puckered his lips slightly, squinted, and raised a hand clothed in a blanket of white hair as thick as moss to point east into the dark woods.

  They thanked him, and he bobbed his white brow again, returning to his loaf with a lingering smile.

  The two entered the wood, where the dipping sun was blocked by trees, and Brenol shivered as the evening breeze whipped upon his clinging garments. They hastily pushed into the woods, heading northeast, hoping to get the blood flowing again.

  After some time, Brenol spoke, “At least we’re going in the right direction for Selet, even if…”

  His speech trailed as he caught sight of little houses peeking out from the gray-green forest. They were the same brown-red of the woods, and several had cheery trails of gray smoke billowing from their chimneys. As they drew nearer, the build of the homes became evident: single story, simple, sturdy.

  “I wonder who lives way out here,” Brenol muttered, but the trees muffled his words. The woods seemed a world away from the visnati in Coltair and even the castle at Sleockna.

  Separate, almost hidden, he thought.

  They found the building easily enough, for it had a sign reading “INN” staked into the earth outside. The house itself was a worn cabin, solidly built with red logs and boasting two windows and a chimney from which white smoke snaked out lazily into the evening sky. Bougainvillea bushes lined the base of the home and stood out vibrantly in red and pink against the dull red wood.

  The two dragged themselves wearily up the dirt path to the door, and while the shutters were closed to keep out the evening cool, there was a pie on the doorstep. It smelled of apples. Darse rapped lightly upon the door.

  “A moment!” yelled a female contralto. The door swung open to reveal a woman of about fifty orbits
, lean as a pipe, wiping her damp hands on her apron. Her auburn-gold hair, beginning to gray, was pinned up loosely, strands fighting their way free after a day of labor. Her face was motherly and gentle and without trace of weakness. She had dark chocolate eyes that hinted at fatigue, a curved jaw that complemented her high cheekbones, and a face traced with laugh and worry lines. The woman’s attire was a simple brown pantsuit, faded and covered with a soft blue apron. She was attractive, but in an unassuming way.

  She smiled. “Suzae. You can just call me Suz.” Her quick eyes took in their hunger and fatigue. “Well come in, come in,” she said, bustling them forward with a wave of her hands. “This is the closest thing you are going to get to an inn in this part of Stonia. Set your packs in the room at the back there, and I’ll get to work on supper. Should be about twenty minutes.” She bent to pick up her cooled pastry and blew a wisp of hair out of her eyes as she stood.

  They peered around. The house had the air and feel of a place that was scoured with the regularity of breathing. It was clean and homey and good.

  In the room she had gestured them to, they stripped off and hung their drenched garments, changed into dry clothes, and scrubbed their hands and faces. They then returned to the main room of the house, where Suzae had roused the hearth fire to a comfortable crackle, and they thankfully sank into the offered chairs. Their hands soon held earthen mugs of steaming hot toddies that warmed and soothed them to their toes. There was no speaking. They merely let the fire and drink do their work.

  Once Suzae laid out supper, and the two had torn through baked bread, steamed vegetables, and sautéed fish, Darse grew aware of her eyes upon him. He glanced up to find the woman surveying them from her place at the stove. Her velvety eyes were curious and quiet.

  He spoke apologetically, “I’m sorry. I lost my manners somewhere in Cabel. I’m Darse and this is Bren. We’re traveling to meet someone in Selet.”

  She granted the understanding smile of an innkeeper who has seen all. “Mouths can’t speak before bellies are filled. You da and son?” she asked casually, while flipping some kind of hot cake in a pan. The rich honeyed aroma caused saliva to puddle in their mouths.

  “Not exactly…long friends more like,” answered Darse.

  She flipped the next cake. “Cabel then? You come down Inest?”

  The two nodded.

  “Hmmm… Can be a bumpy ride, although spring isn’t so bad.” She gave them a warm grin and wave of the head. Darse was unsure if the movement was for them or to sweep the straying hair from her face.

  “We get a traveler or two through this way about once every few septspan. Not a lot of people heading into Selet, though.” Her eyes lingered upon Brenol before falling to the ground. Her tone implied more than her words.

  Darse frowned. He was not pleased with the insinuation about Selet. “I hear it is pretty rough,” he replied, leading.

  “That is saying it nicely. Like calling our mountains out there skipping stones.”

  “You been there before?” Brenol asked through a mouthful. It surprised him to think of this little woman traipsing across Massada.

  She waved her free hand in a swipe of dismissal. “Brother did, soumme did. Not I. But I have had enough of it through them.” A strange bitterness resonated in her voice and expression. Brenol failed to perceive it, but Darse did not.

  “Any advice?” Brenol asked.

  “Don’t go, or if you must, take a guide and stick to the paths.” Her voice was steady and straight. She wiped her hands again on her apron, picked up the cakes with a spatula, and deposited them on a plate in a sweep. “Sweet pansies. My specialty.” She smiled broadly. Her small chest seemed to swell in delighted anticipation.

  The two ate the thin cakes eagerly. They were honey-sweet with a crispy exterior, yet the inside was soft and spongy and practically melted when it touched the tongue. She beamed in pleasure as they devoured the pile.

  “Your mountains sure are something else,” Darse said conversationally.

  “Indeed. Not a soul can get up ’em.”

  Brenol’s head lifted in interest. “No one?”

  She conceded a little, “Well, not the average.”

  Abruptly, Suzae slapped her cooking-scarred hands down upon her thighs. “Well, I might as well be out with it. Here…hold a minute.” She left the stove top and began rummaging in a worn, wooden cupboard. Wiping an imaginary layer of dust from some papers, Suzae strode over to their table and laid down the pile of variously sized sheets and posters. She rifled through until she found a specific paper, which she unfolded carefully and placed neatly atop the pile.

  “Selet,” she said matter-of-factly.

  It was a map detailing the great forest and river systems, as well as the dunes and barren lands. It was penned in thin, clean strokes with precise lettering and black ink. The edges had turned up slightly with age, but otherwise the thin sheet showed few signs of wear.

  Suzae pursed her lips together before speaking, “My brother became quite interested in the area—the people, the land, the mystery, everything—a few orbits back. Well, really it was, oh, fifteen orbits ago that he started exploring and mapping and such. Loved the place. Loved it more than anything.” She fingered the map with gentleness. The gesture was a strange contrast to her harsh tone.

  “The map might be a bit outdated depending on how the towns have grown or receded, but it’s better than nothing.” She opened her hands out, gesturing it as gift.

  “Thank you!” Brenol said with enthusiasm. “But will he miss it, though? I don’t know if we can return it.” He stuffed his mouth with more cakes. Darse winced.

  She frowned, bit her lip, and spoke in a tone contriving to be casual, “Afraid not. He never returned from his last trip out there.” She wiped her clean hands on the drab apron and the room filled with tense quiet.

  Suzae raised her eyes to meet Darse’s with determination. “Take it,” she said with finality, pushing it forward a few digits. “I certainly am never going there. Might as well be of some use to good folks.” She smiled sincerely, yet her face bore the tightness of long-held strain.

  He returned the smile. “Thank you, Suzae.”

  “Suz,” she said firmly.

  “Suz,” he conceded.

  She scooped up the other maps, deposited them neatly in the cupboard, and returned to a kettle of tea she had been brewing. “Ah, you’ll be getting tired now.” She poured and handed them each a steaming mug. “Here’s something hot to calm your thoughts. Pie?”

  Darse shook his head firmly before Brenol could respond; the boy’s mouth was full enough.

  “The two cots in that room are yours. And breakfast?” she inquired with elevated eyebrows.

  Darse took a sip that scalded his throat pleasurably on the way down and filled his mouth with a sweet, lemony taste. “Early,” he rasped.

  She nodded before bustling them off to bed.

  As Darse sank into the good warmth of his sheets, he nearly laughed aloud, for up bounded the memory of Brenol’s dumbfounded expression as he had first bitten into one of the visnat’s sandwiches.

  That boy can talk to the ground, but he can’t imagine a world without flesh on his plate.

  He smiled until the dream world pulled him into its comfortable arms.

  ~

  Brenol awoke in the night, tense and alert even in the first gasp of consciousness. He sat up in the darkness, wrenched with emotion and desire.

  Veronia, his body screamed. Veronia.

  His forehead beaded and his shirt slicked against his chest as he squinted around the room. The boy could see nothing, but it did not matter; his soul was awake to only one sensation.

  I must get back. I must.

  It was as if his entire person were iron being drawn by the magnet of Veronia. He gripped the bedding to cement his body in place, but everything in him demanded flight.

  The power, his blood seemed to pulse. The power. I need it.

  Brenol found his f
eet shuffling to the door before he had even formed the volition for it. The knob was cool in his damp palm, and his wrist shook as he began to turn it.

  Just leave him. Just leave Darse. Run.

  The thought jolted him enough to shake out from the mindless compulsion driving him, yet nothing could allay his experience.

  Easy, he told himself. He felt his teeth threaten to crack under the force of his clenching jaw. It required a determined effort to finally release the door’s handle.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, he returned to his cot and climbed in with rigid limbs. His chest thundered, but over the course of an hour it slowed and evened. Brenol found his reasoning return, but with it came shame that burned his face.

  I really did think about leaving Darse.

  The boy doubted this would be the last time the greed would surface; already it had choked his guilty heart twice, and they had barely left Veronia.

  Brenol curled, vowed himself to silence, and waited until sleep took his exhausted frame.

  CHAPTER 14

  A terrisdan’s motivation can never be fully discerned.

  -Genesifin

  Suzae had arranged for supplies, which lay waiting on her doorstep before dawn. The two breakfasted, paid, and thanked her. She gave them a brief jerk of the head that seemed just as much intended to corral some straying hairs, and returned to scouring a skillet. She was apparently not a woman for farewells.

  They loaded up and began the trek to the border. There was no road, but something akin to a path led east through the thick of the wood. It would do.

  “Warm morning,” Darse remarked, wiping his brow with the corner of a sleeve.

  Brenol pointedly ignored the comment; it reminded him too closely of his previous night, sweating as he burned with greed. “I wonder what has everyone biting their nails over Selet,” he said.

  “I’m hoping we don’t find out,” replied Darse with a shrug. “But I certainly wish my da had chosen a nicer terrisdan to make memories with.”

  Brenol and Darse’s eyes connected, and the man paused. There, in the boy’s dark jade orbs, a fierce determination shone out that caused Darse’s lips to part. The youth’s face was straight; expression, stony.