The Land's Whisper

by Monica Lee Kennedy

  And they walked back to the soladrome, hopeful that all would eventually be right with the nuresti, their lives, and Massada. That all would be well.

  CHAPTER 36

  The secrets of the water will meet air and light.

  -Genesifin

  Brenol’s footfalls landed softly upon the worn rug as he ambled his way to the window to gaze out at the lush gardens. He would always remember his time here fondly: the comfortable and worn feel of the umbu rooms, the smell of white jasmine tea wafting through the air at meal times, the clean ivory tile beneath his toes, the touch of Colette’s hand when they walked in the cool dusk, the longing in his fingertips to caress her dark tresses. Brenol sighed the contented sigh of one who enjoys but knows it will end in the next breath.

  And so it did.

  Darse marched in loudly, the mud from his shoes splattering the white tile. “You have a message waiting for you,” he said. The man’s scruffy face was pinched in bemusement.

  “Me? From who?” Brenol’s own voice sounded far away. He felt a twitch in his fingers as if the peace were tumbling from them.

  “I don’t know. I’m interested myself. I’d wondered…” Darse paused with a stiff frown before shaking away the idea. “No, it couldn’t,” he said softly to himself under the cover of breath.

  Brenol’s curiosity piqued, he pointed toward the exit questioningly. Darse nodded. “The green receiving hall,” he added.

  The sound of his own footsteps clicking across the tile jolted any bit of remaining reverie, but regardless, the boy hesitated, inhaled purposefully, and finally pressed forward past the simple wooden door. He crossed the corridor and wound past several quarters until he stood outside the hall in question. It was a room utilized for private and small receptions. Brenol pushed the door open and swept his eyes around the humble chamber.

  A person stood waiting with his back to Brenol, his diminutive frame clothed in navy from neck to ankle. Brenol’s heart leaped within him.

  Could it? Could it be?

  As the boy’s gasp met his ear, the visnat turned. It was Spence, with hair combed back, black boots, a brass-buttoned blue suit, and a braided gray beard. He allowed a minute smile to curve the corners of his mouth and waited for Brenol to speak.

  Brenol did not utter a word. No, he could not. He wept.

  The sorrow for the visnati had been buried and dormant—an ever-present knot, deep and cold in his chest—and now, finally, it had found a fissure from which to break forth. Brenol’s knees buckled, and he choked on his sobs, falling to the floor. He knelt for many minutes, his breath too ragged to allow for communication.

  The grief burning hotly in his chest was compounded by terrible guilt: Does he know how I failed and couldn’t stop Fingers? That I never tried to talk to the polina? I waited…and the visnati died.

  His crying eased. While he was cold with fear, he knew he must speak. His grief had left him rent, but ready to unburden. Too long had he carried the weight of his failings.

  “I didn’t stop him,” Brenol finally whispered, his face toward the floor.

  “What?”

  “He attacked us first,” Brenol replied softly.

  “What do you mean?” the visnat asked cautiously.

  Brenol’s face streamed. “The attacker. The one who killed the visnati. We met him in Selet. He stole Darse’s memories and that’s how he knew about you. We escaped, but I didn’t try to tell the polina for so long. And…and then he did that to the visnati… It was revenge, because I killed a man.”

  Spence gaped, astonished.

  Brenol felt paralyzed with shame, and it was only when an image, the Massadan gesture of apology, surfaced in his mind that he could find his breath again.

  Slowly, he stretched his body prostrate.

  The boy kissed his fingertips and crept his right hand across the smooth tile, stopping short of Spence’s boots before breaking past his hesitation and grazing one—a kiss to the toe. Brenol turned his palm up and allowed it to rest upon the cool white a few digits from the visnat’s foot. He waited, not raising his head, with suspended breath for either a booted blow or forgiving acceptance.

  It was a humble gesture, and roused the visnat out of his shock. The crushing pardon was not used for common blunders, and from this other-worlder, it carried an added weight of humility.

  Spence dropped to his knees, taking Brenol’s hand into his own small and rough pair and kissing it with the gentleness of a bee to a flower. “I…,” he choked, pausing until he could control himself. “You’re a friend. You’re not the cause… You never would have…” Spence inhaled slowly, collecting himself. “Let’s not speak on it again.”

  And with that, he released Brenol, creaked his legs to a stand, and brushed his hands upon his trousers as if wiping away the situation and all its ugliness.

  Brenol rose as well but could not leave the topic entirely. “How? And did they…” He did not know if he could voice the names of the visnati he had known.

  Spence’s eyes tightened to a squint. Finally, he nodded gravely. “Most. My best friends. I missed the festival. Everyone else was there. The fires… Rook, Murph. And you knew Colvin. I’d just wanted a little time alone that night… And now I’ve more than I can endure.”

  Lines of grief etched the visnat’s face. He had lived a hundred orbits in the season since Fingers had swept away so many of his tiny town. After a moment, he straightened his posture and spoke in a new tone. “I come on business, Bren.”

  Brenol’s eyebrows raised.

  “The maralane want to meet with you. You’ve been granted an invitation.” Spence’s tone was inscrutable.

  Brenol asked incredulously, “With me? Why me?”

  The visnat offered a weak smile and lifted his arms in a hint of a shrug. “Maralane do what they want, and we all sit and wonder.”

  The boy pondered briefly but cocked his head in question as another thought occurred to him. “How did you become their messenger?”

  Spence’s gentle eyes revealed nothing. “Pitied me is all.”

  Brenol did not believe him entirely. He was not sure what to make of the arrangement, or this meeting.

  “Darse,” Spence began, but flushed with an unnatural abashment. “He…he really doesn’t remember me, does he?”

  Brenol’s insides knotted. “Did he say anything to you?”

  Spence shook his head, plainly unnerved. “Only seemed surprised that you had a visitor. Asked me who I was… I didn’t know what to say… Pretty strange, those eyes.”

  “Yeah,” Brenol agreed.

  “Bren?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Don’t tell him,” Spence said severely.

  Brenol regarded the visnat for a long moment. “No, I won’t.”

  Spence gave an almost imperceptible sigh before delving into the business plans before them.

  ~

  And so Brenol found himself at Ziel, awaiting a rendezvous with the leader of the maralane—the renowned creature Preifest. He grew more and more skeptical as to the nature of this visit, especially as he surveyed the site. Brenol planted his feet firmly on the beams beneath him but found his trembling insides could not match the stance.

  He stood at the tip of a wooden track extending out over Ziel for a quarter matrole. The strip itself was narrow—not more than a single stride wide—with interrupted sections of smooth metal railing along the left side. It was unlike the dock the visnati had used to visit the maralane, although even that had felt precarious at the time. No, this dock was strategic. Any man brought here experienced his vulnerability to whatever the underwater world had contrived. Brenol could not prevent his fingers from clutching the railing behind him, the one meager consolation, as he squinted through the dawn’s bursting light.

  He had left Darse the day before—the day following his meeting with Spence—nearly empty handed and apprehensively curious. It was less than half a day of travel, and leisurely at that, but Darse had been reluctant to allow
the boy to journey alone. Spence, however, had been adamant; the maralane promised Brenol’s safety but would revolt at another’s trespass. So the older man remained to watch over Colette and brood.

  Brenol and Spence had ambled by the waters, primarily consumed by private thoughts. They spent the evening in comfortable accommodations at a local inn, where Brenol sleeplessly awaited the unusual engagement. Spence roused him before dawn, just as exhaustion had begun to even his breath, and led the bleary-eyed youth to Ziel.

  Why me, Brenol’s mind continually intoned, becoming a mantra accompanying each foot fall toward the lake.

  Why me?

  Why me?

  And what could this be about?

  And on he waited.

  The morning sun finally drenched the sky and opened the heavens up in a bath of light. Birds lifted their song over the blue and chattered with shrill calls. Brenol stomped his feet restlessly and searched the water. The water glinted terribly, but at least the day’s heat was young.

  Suddenly, he blinked hard and shuddered, for the still of Ziel changed within a breath. A hundred maralane or more began to emerge, slick and foreign, staring at him with strange eyes. He could not take in any individual lake-man, just the teeming army en masse. He gripped the railing behind him with damp palms.

  The silence broke all at once. The group lifted their legs, extended tail fins to the surface, and slapped the water in a synchronized movement of scales. Each smack across the surface brought about a crash that pierced Brenol’s ears and jolted his nerves. He did jump, although he tried to conceal it from the dozens and dozens of eyes that never wavered from his person. The waters around the pulsating crowd rushed and threatened to erupt upon the rickety dock, yet somehow they did not; the control of their waters was an art well mastered.

  The din halted as abruptly as it began. The maralane sank slowly back into the waters with unblinking eyes, like reptili descending under the black screen. A single lake-man remained. He tarried just long enough to blow a smooth, oyster-white horn. It was a forlorn sound, deep and long and low. The note carried for the space of several breaths before the maralane man followed the army, continuing its low and eerie blast into the waters as he sank below the surface.

  The whole underworld is watching, waiting, Brenol thought. His angst was agitated further by the knowledge that this effect had certainly been their intent.

  Two maralane now emerged. Of the two, one was obviously the leader, Preifest. He was a markedly older maralane, with face and scales rough and worn, yet without any trace of feebleness or frailty. His serious brow was topped by locks tied back with the traditional lake-bed flora. His ash-white face housed a smooth chin, curving forward like a crescent moon. Preifest’s eyes sunk slightly back from his forehead and cheeks, but their purple irises caused them to stand out regardless.

  Absorbed, Brenol forgot all his disquiet. Preifest had an irresistible quality difficult to pinpoint. His person embodied the mystery of the maralane while emanating an unassuming control of himself, others, his surroundings. This lake-man was a leader. His command was authoritative and natural. One could not help but follow him with one’s eyes.

  To the leader’s left was a strong-bodied male. He remained submerged to the chin, never speaking, and his eyes took in every movement and word, as though he was patiently waiting for his prey to flush. It was chilling.

  The youth nearly leapt at the sound of Preifest’s voice. It was smaller than expected, the result of vocal chords rarely used above water, but it was nonetheless stalwart and sure. “It is unusual to have called you here today, but it is time. We have reached the beginning and the end. This is the time of the Genesifin.”

  His translucent webbed fingers traced the surface of the water. The wood before and the water behind him stilled to an eerie quiet. Even the birds ceased their racket, as if the entire world held its breath in wait.

  “It is the beginning and the end,” he repeated. His tone was odd, without inflection.

  Brenol waited silently, tensed. The end? He sucked in the humid air and tried to throw off the weighty blanket of anticipation. His jaw clenched despite the effort.

  “I have something for you.” Preifest’s pale arm extended out to the head beside him. The maralane lithely drew his upper body to the surface and suspended himself as easily as though standing upon a stool. With this, an object came partially into view, held securely in muscled arms. Even in the lake-man’s grip, Brenol drew in a sharp breath at the sight. It was a book, luminously white. The contrast of the brilliant binding against the murky dark water was staggering in itself; the great deference given the tiny manuscript was even more intriguing. It was extended with care to the crouching youth, and the pale hand hesitated briefly before finally releasing its hold.

  Brenol shook off the uncanny sensation that ballooned under their intense gaze and straightened to examine the dripping item. The book was no larger than the span of his hand, and its binding was tight and made of some unfamiliar material. It was smoother than leather but just as flexible and—seemingly—durable. He gingerly fingered the hard coverings, eager to peruse its contents.

  Preifest’s expression remained blank. “This is the Genesifin.”

  The second maralane again submerged to a floating head, silent and still. Brenol was sorely tempted to laugh but bit his tongue to recall himself back to the solemn moment.

  “The Genesifin… We have fulfilled our part. It is now a burden for the shoulders of the upper world.” Almost imperceptibly, two lines tightened across his drawn features, as though loosing this chain was more a torture than a release. They disappeared in an instant.

  “Do you not have any questions?” Preifest asked.

  Too many to count, Brenol thought. His voice, when it came, was louder than he expected, perhaps only because it contrasted with the hushed baritone of Preifest. “Why do you give it to me? I’m not even from Massada.”

  “You were the sign to mark the time: foreigner, rescuer, ilk of nuresti. These are you.” It was not a question.

  He reeled at the statement. The experience of his own person felt far too ordinary. He shook his head in negation; he knew he was no legend.

  “What’s the Genesifin about? What is it?” Brenol finally asked.

  Preifest’s brow elevated; he was astonished. “You do not know?” He peered down into the water, mumbling to himself, “He has to know…”

  A thought must have eased his mind, for the maralane’s face smoothed and returned to its austere mold. “It is of no matter. You perhaps do not even realize you know. But you know. It is the sacred book entrusted to us for Massada.”

  This was little consolation to Brenol. Riddles had been rubbing him raw since he had tumbled from the watery cave. “And what am I supposed to do with it?”

  “That is for the upper world to determine,” Preifest replied enigmatically. Whether he perceived the tremor of frustration in Brenol’s expression or simply decided to elaborate, Preifest leaned forward in the water and spoke even more softly, “Yet, it was chosen for you to hold and protect for a purpose… Guard it, learn it, discover its wealth. Purpose will show itself eventually.”

  He nodded his head slowly. “You have the first decision as to what happens with it. You may choose to share or conceal according to your reason, but be aware that it should not be taken flippantly; the Genesifin will come to pass. Whether you prepare them for it is your own decision.”

  How can I do anything? Let alone what I don’t know about, Brenol thought in irritation.

  “You are being asked to carry much. This is no small matter, Brenol.”

  “But you won’t tell me what I have to do?” the boy insisted.

  Preifest met Brenol’s eyes with his purple gaze yet remained silent.

  Brenol itched to heave the Genesifin back into the depths and turn his heels in flight. No one would even know, he thought, but he recognized at the same moment that his own heart would never allow it. I’ve got to buy
the roll I’ve bitten—Massada, Colette, Veronia, the list never ends. I can’t run, and it’s no use hiding.

  He sighed and shifted the white book between his hands as though the weight of the small manuscript were the reason for his sinking shoulders.

  Brenol’s eyes rose, and he realized the conversation had come to a close. Preifest bent his neck, slightly bowing his head in a gesture of respect and farewell. Brenol began to do the same but stopped, the conversation with Arman suddenly looming in his memory. “Does this have anything to do with Colette? And the isle? Ordah?”

  Preifest remained stationary for several moments. He spoke in a hoarse whisper, “Brenol, take the gift… It is a discussion for next time.”

  Brenol’s brows furrowed. He sensed he was irking the leader but could not comprehend exactly why. “Next time?” he asked cautiously.

  “Yes. There will be one more. You must read the Genesifin first. You must realize its destiny… Then we shall speak and understand each other clearly.”

  Preifest’s tone bore finality, yet Brenol could not help but continue. “Are the maralane dying?”

  The maralane’s face clenched, and his violet eyes narrowed as he scrutinized his guest closely. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and laced with danger. “You see more than you say, young Brenol Tilted-Ash. I don’t know how you have deduced this or why you conceal your knowledge of the Genesifin. I would have it another way. Maralane speak plainly.”

  Brenol’s insides lurched. It’s true, then. They’re failing. Arman was right.

  Preifest’s hard purple eyes were still stony as he mumbled in his hoarse maralane baritone. “—a time to grieve for what is good that will be lost.”

  Brenol felt so small. He longed to find clarity, to express his own grief for the maralane, yet did not know where to begin. The confirmation to Arman’s musings had left him dumb, and Preifest undoubtedly perceived it instead as cunning. Brenol felt every lacking day of his fourteen orbits.

  And with this, Preifest nodded curtly and was no more. Small concentric circles marked his path from the upper world.