One day shortly after I turned six years old, Mama came home and spoke of people who had disappeared.
“The Duke of Korelesk,” she said, referring to a man Papa called his cousin, Marko. “He means to exterminate my people. He means to kill us all. He blames us for the Disease and everything bad that has happened to our planet.”
She pulled me on her lap and held me tightly so I would not be afraid of this cousin Marko or what he meant to do. As I leaned against her shoulder, I could feel the trembling in her body and this alone made me more fearful than ever before.
“That's ridiculous,” Papa scorned. “We have nothing to fear.”
This prompted Mama to shout at him that he was being naive and had always been so. She carried me off to bed, kissing my cheek and telling me not to worry, although by now, I was terrified of I knew not what.
However, the strangest thing happened to me after that. While staring at my ceiling, at the crack that ran across it from door to window, I heard a voice inside the room. In fact, the voice sounded as if it was next to me in the bed. It wasn't that of either Mama or Papa, who were still shouting, banging chairs and smashing dishes on the kitchen floor. They called each other names and Mama wept while Papa swore, prompting the man in the flat above us to bang upon our ceiling.
“Don't be afraid,” the voice next to me said. It was soft and sounded like a boy. “I shall be with you. I am waiting for you. It shall be soon. I am here.”
“Okay,” I replied, seeing no one but my shadow.
Instantly, I felt better, as I knew whoever he was, he was my friend. I could trust him with my life, and I felt as if I always had. Then, I fell asleep that night to the sound of my mama's tears and Papa slamming the door as he went to get a drink from the neighborhood pub.
Mama was right, as she always was, for not long after that, cousin Marko did come for us. His army came to our village, to our building and took all the people of the motherland away.
Mama was at her job, so Papa and I hoped that she was safe, as we peeked from our single window at the street. All our neighbors were lined up, one by one, while the army pointed their guns and shouted commands. The old man who lived three doors away refused to stay where he had been told. Papa covered my eyes when the army shot him with their bullets.
When they came to our door, Papa told them who he was.
“I am Viscount Kildoo,” he declared, puffing out his chest. “I am cousin to Duke Marko of Korelesk.”
“Prove it,” the men laughed, for they did not believe a nobleman could be living in such a dirty place, in a ghetto that was populated by only Mama's people.
“Just a moment,” Papa said, as the men pushed themselves into our front room. “I will find something to show you who I am.”
He ran to the bedroom he and Mama shared while I stood alone in the front room, staring at the men. Mama had always said I looked like a Korelesk with my fine blond hair and clear blue eyes. I must have, for the men stared back at me and murmured that I was out of place.
“Dov! Come Dov. I need your help, son. Come reach inside this drawer.”
“Yes, Papa,” I replied, and hurried to his room.
Papa grabbed me as soon as I came through the door. He carried me to the window and opened it wide.
“Go on,” he pushed me through, “jump down. It isn't nearly as far as it looks. Run to the forest and hide there until this whole thing passes.”
I began to protest and struggle in his arms for indeed, the distance to the ground looked quite far to me. Still, he shoved me through until it was only his arms that held me above the ground.
“Goodbye, Dov. If I don't come for you, go to the motherland and be with Mama's people.”
Then, he dropped me and I fell three stories. I remembered each moment in the air as if it happened in slow motion. At first, I covered my eyes, but as I realized how slowly this time was passing, I removed my hands and watched the world fly around me.
Papa was leaning out the window with empty arms, and like the building, he grew smaller and smaller until he was no bigger than my thumb. Then, he disappeared inside and I landed upon the grass. Despite the distance I had traveled, I had no injuries. In fact, I felt as if I had flown across the sky upon the giant wings of angel, who set me down with a kiss and a blessing to be well.
Rising to my feet, I glanced around at our now empty building. I could hear the sounds of the army coalescing upon the street in front. A sharp crack filled the air. It was a gunshot, although I didn’t know it at the time.
“Run Dov,” a voice called me to the forest. “Run away before they come.”
It was the same voice, the same boy who had come to my bedroom, my old friend, and so I ran, never once looking back.
For a long time, many days and nights, the changing of the seasons, and the passage of the moons, I lived alone in the woods, wandering from path to path. From forest to meadow, I followed the rivers nearly always by myself. Occasionally, I would meet up with a band of our people, who were hiding from the Korelesk army, just as I. There were many who died there in the woods, having never been exposed to the elements, having spent their entire lives cloistered in the city, never having learned to make a fire.
My friend taught me everything I needed to survive, and I lived, even enjoying the experience a little bit.
One day, I came upon an old man sitting beside the corpse of his wife. She was newly passed and the man refused to leave her.
“We have lost our way,” he told me.
Even though I was small, I helped him build her grave. Unfortunately, we had no shovels or anything with which we could use to dig. Instead, we shrouded her in stones, shiny pebbles and granite boulders from the river's edge, until her body was safely hidden from the forest animals.
“What will you do now?” I asked him.
“Wait for my turn to die. I can no more live out here in the forest, than I could become a Korelesk slave. What will you do, little one? How can you manage to survive alone here with winter coming?”
I shrugged and rose to my feet.
“My friend will tell me what I should do.”
The old man looked around at the empty meadow and leafless trees, seeing no one, save, a squirrel or two.
“Your friend?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.
“My friend,” I repeated. “He has kept me safe this long.”
“Then, I suspect he will keep you safe longer still.”
Shortly thereafter, my friend guided me to the village at the river’s edge. I wintered there in the doorways and beneath the docks. I ate whatever I could find, stealing roots from abandoned kitchen gardens, or bread from window sills, or coins from the pockets of the drunks who lined the streets.
When I met Jan, it was already the spring and I had lived on my own in this manner for nearly a year. I saw her many times upon her boat and at each meeting, my friend would push me in the ribs.
“Speak to her,” he said.
“Of what?”
“Befriend her,” he said. “Tell her how you love the sea. Go home with her. There is food there for you to eat.”
I did as I was told and discovered in the flat next to her own, the very friend that had been speaking to me all along.
I knew who Amyr was and I knew who Amyr had been before. Although I couldn't put it into words, or describe how I came to this knowledge, as soon as I was in his presence, I knew by his side was where I belonged.
When we arrived upon the shores of the motherland, Amyr was taken by the Village Priest and Village Chief, for they recognized in him the same thing that I saw.
“Stay with Pellen,” Amyr told me while we were still crossing the ocean in the tiny boat. “Comfort him for he has lost both wife and son.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “You are still here.”
“Ach, Dov.” My friend sighed in the way that he always had. Then, he nudged me in the arm, a smile playing upon his lips. I could tell that like me, he was glad th
at we were together again.
I lived with Pellen for more than three years, helping in his shop and attending the village school where I learned the language of the motherland. Little else could hold my attention, for I had grown unaccustomed to sitting in a chair.
I longed to be a warrior, to return to the other continent, and vanquish the army of Korelesk.
Each year, I watched the older boys ride off to the King’s village to begin this training, to learn how to fight, and I thought of Amyr, who was already there, preparing for the war we would wage.
“Maybe next year, little Dov,” Jan laughed, when I told her of my longing to join those who fought. “When you have grown in height to nearly double, you will be able to carry a sword. Now, it would only drag upon the ground like a dog with a too-long tail. Better you should remain in your lessons and learn how to count all these coins we are earning.”
Amyr visited on occasion but as he grew older, those time became rare. His visits were never long, only enough to hear our news.
“And, what of you?” Pellen always asked. “How is your health?”
“I am well, Papa.”
“No spells?”
“Not often.”
“What of your legs and the weakness in your muscles?”
“No.” Amyr would shake his head again. “I am strong because I am here where I belong.”
“What of your eyes? How is your sight?”
“It is enough to see what I need to know.”
Then, Pellen would nod and insist Jan bring Amyr a bowl of soup. After which, he would begin his inquiries again.
“What do you do? Who teaches you? Where do you live? What do you eat?” Pellen repeated the same questions over and again, although each time, Amyr was as evasive with his answers as before.
My friend would simply act as if he hadn’t heard the question, instead asking after our health before begging his leave to go. Pellen would kiss his cheek and with a furrowed brow and concern upon his face, he would watch Amyr until he was too far down the street to be seen.
“What does he learn?” Afterward, Pellen would turn to me, asking the same questions, searching for the answers Amyr refused to give.
Always, I would shrug and pretend I didn’t know. But, I did. Amyr learned who he was.
Chapter 14: Rekah
My great-grandfather, who I was named for, was cousin to the Great Emperor. When the Emperor died, the elder Rekah became King of Karupatani for the three decades that remained until his own death. He was very old then, past one hundred ten years, although no one was certain of the exact number, as not even Rekah could remember when he was born.
Rekah bred a large and prolific family, his three wives doing most of the hard work. My grandfather, who at Rekah’s death was the eldest of his surviving sons, then followed him to the throne. My cousin succeeded grandfather and when my cousin passed untimely in his youth of the Disease, I inherited the somewhat plain and unobtrusive Karupatani crown and the little house tucked into the woods, my even less obtrusive tiny palace.
We were not pretentious in Karupatani so the title of King meant little beyond this. However, my duties entailed conducting the meetings and councils of the village chiefs, and resolving or at least mitigating the many disputes that arose between them.
I was also to negotiate with my counterpart in the Mishnese Kingdom, to keep the peace, such as it was. During the reign of the Empress Sara and her son, King Mikal, this was a pleasure, as we were cousins by blood.
Mike had been a good friend of mine. We had both similar interests in sports and drinks, as well as similar strife. Our families had both perished from the Disease that raced across our planet in those times.
Our twice year meetings were times of pleasure that I sincerely missed, for his cousin and successor, Marko Korelesk was not nearly the same upstanding man. Even before Mike passed, Korelesk sought to take the throne, before anyone could think to or respond to deny him this right.
Marko Korelesk would inherit a land in ruins, devastated by the Disease and suffering from turbulent storms and famine. I inherited a land rich with crops and contented people, many of whom had chosen to abandon our traditional ways and venture across the ocean to live a modern life.
From the traders who crossed the ocean and our people who returned, I heard rumors of terrible things happening in the other land. Korelesk was blaming us for all his troubles. My people were becoming enslaved or put to death, but I was powerless to stop him. I had no armies beyond our brave men and horses. Our weapons were only that which we could craft by our own hands, while Korelesk had ships and trucks, guns and lasers, and horrific bombs.
“We have the most important weapon,” my younger brother, Ronan, the High Priest, reminded me one evening.
We were together in the Holy Temple, another unobtrusive structure hidden in the woodlands. Despite its appearance, the Temple was a magical place where I could feel the Holy One’s presence in my soul. I had come to my brother for guidance, hoping that together we would find a way to save our people across the sea.
“The Holy One has Blessed us,” Ronan said, his voice annoyed with my lack of comprehension. “He will send us a means to save our people.”
“How do you know this?”
“I believe,” my brother smiled beatifically, “and it is also written in the Holy Books.”
I believed, but I did not say, that my brother relied overly much on the literary ramblings of our ancestor a millennium ago. However, I could not think of a means myself, so I asked him, “What is this that our Great Father Karukan prophesied? What will save our wayward people from extinction?”
Ronan smiled again.
“If you would read the Books yourself, you would know. Since you are obstinate and refuse, I shall tell you only that you must pray.”
“For what? For who?”
My brother shook his head.
I prayed. I did. All the time, for I had no other solution and when the people and the chiefs came to me, I advised them to do the same.
As time passed, I grew skeptical for the refugees’ stories became more horrific with no miraculous Intervention in sight.
“Keep praying,” Ronan repeated, and though I redoubled my efforts, the doubt in my heart grew. “Patience. The answer will soon be revealed.”
I waited and I worried, but ultimately, my brother was right. The answer arrived and it was neither a bomb, or a laser, or a gun. It was a boy, sickly and weak, hardly able to stand of his own accord. He arrived from the coastal village upon a horse, of which he was tied to the saddle so he would not fall.
“Look who I have brought, my king,” the Village Chief, my friend, Kirat cried, lifting the boy from the horse and carrying him into my house as if he was a babe. “Our prayers have been answered. The MaKennah, our savior has come again.”
For a moment, I had no words to offer in response. Surely, he did not mean that this child would save our people and halt Korelesk.
“This boy?” I said, once Kirat had placed him upon my couch.
The child collapsed against the cushions and closed his eyes, as if he meant to sleep. His breath came hard and his little chest heaved, the bony nobs of his shoulder blades rising and falling through the thin fabric of his shirt.
“Tut tut!” my serving woman cried, appearing at just that moment to see who or what had come. “A blanket, this poor child needs. I’ll be right back. Don’t you move.”
“Yes, this boy,” Kirat declared. “Open your eyes, lad. Let the King see who you are.”
“Let him rest,” the serving woman scolded, returning with a pillow and some bedding. “Now, I’ll fetch the young one some good soup. He is far too skinny and in need of nourishment. Afterward, you may talk to him, but until then, the both of you be gone.”
My serving woman pushed Kirat, the Chief and me, the King out my front door, as if this house belong to her instead of the man who sat upon the Karupta throne.
Kirat was insistent that
this boy was more than he appeared. As we strolled through the village and from there to the Holy Temple in the woods, I remained doubtful.
“What proof do you have that this boy is anything other than a sickly child?”
“He speaks our tongue with fluency although he has never studied a single word. Did you not look at him, my king? Did you not see his face?”
I had, and yes, I would agree that in his features I had seen a resemblance, but in my own face, I saw the same each time I looked into a mirror.
“Behold, my king,” Kirat declared, pointing at the frescoed ceiling of the chapel, where the Great Emperor’s visage gazed down upon those who came to pray. “Is he not the mirror image? Has he not descended from the Heavens once again? Has he not come to aide us, his chosen people, in the predicament we face?”
“I don’t know.” I shook my head and with my friend, I knelt to pray. This boy could be merely another cousin begat from another cousin, and descended from one of the sons of the first Rekah’s large and extended family. I had many cousins who had left us for the allure of the continent across the sea, so many I didn’t even know their names.
When we returned to my home, the child was still sleeping on the sofa, the serving woman watchfully guarding from a chair at his side.
“There is dinner for you in the fridge,” she whispered, her knitting needles clicking even louder than her voice, as I came to gaze at the boy’s face, to examine it fully. “Now, leave him be! You can bother him when he is well. Go on!” She swatted my arm with a needle and pushed me away.
Kirat laughed, albeit quietly. “It is well you have no summits planned with Marko Korelesk. If you did, you would have to bring that old woman, for surely she is stronger than any general in your army.”
“Kari-fa, Kirat,” I exclaimed, leading him back through my open door. “Let us dine in the pub tonight for at least there I am treated like a king.”
“And, the beer is better than what you keep in your fridge.”
The boy continued to rest upon my sofa and the serving woman continued to nurse him with broths and tea, whilst I went about my business as King of Karupatani in my office up the stairs. If I made too much noise coming down the steps, or if I asked, ‘What dinner have you prepared for me tonight,’ the old woman would hiss loudly and point a crooked finger at the kitchen.
Metal and Magic: A Fantasy Journey Page 24
