Namesake

by Kate Stradling

  He’s building up their excitement for the final blow.

  I’m going to die here, worlds away from my home, from my parents and everything I know and love.

  Why didn’t I just accept the magic classes? I’ve sat through them for twelve years, so what was a few more months? Why didn’t I just accept them?

  It might seem nonsensical, but this is the thought that floats across my mind in these my final moments.

  I’m going to die, and it all would have been preventable if I had humbled myself to my parents’ wishes, if I had gone to sleep in my own bed instead of wandering through the night in search of an alternative.

  My life pulses through my veins, as sluggish as the blood that coats my back.

  Death is not acceptable. I can’t die, not when my last words to my own family were full of bitterness and hate. I can’t die when I’ve never even figured out what I want to live for.

  I can’t die.

  The buzzing in my ears amplifies, and with it, a pressure builds. My sheer will to live screams like a caged animal, feral and desperate to be free. I push away from the dry grass, slowly, staggering first to my knees and then to my feet.

  My attacker is too busy with his audience to notice me right away. I can barely keep my balance, my head pointed downward as my vision blurs in and out of focus. The frenzy of his army shifts its tone, and he glances my direction. I watch in my periphery as he circles his monstrous steed around to face me. His weapon, mottled with blood and torn fibers, angles out toward the ground.

  The ruthless crowd behind him screams for a finishing blow.

  He takes his time approaching, relishing the end.

  The first fundamental of magic is that it flows like a river. The energy gathers from a source beyond sight and, like water in its riverbed, courses to its destination. You are the riverbed, Anjeni.

  The feral animal within howls for release. I raise my hands, pitifully weak and shaking, palms facing outward, as though I can block the oncoming attack. The rider swings his weapon aloft. His mount picks up speed for this final blow.

  You are the riverbed, Anjeni.

  The animal within screams.

  And I… I set it free.

  If I ever find the moron who wrote the first fundamental of magic, I swear I will throttle them until they die. Magic is nothing like a river. It’s a volcano: searing, explosive, and capable of obliterating everything in its destructive path.

  Chapter Seven

  Someone is talking. My brain seems to think it should understand the words, but aside from the cadences of spoken language, nothing is intelligible. A man and a woman are speaking gibberish to one another, and I lie flat on my stomach, with only a fuzzy awareness beyond the steady, throbbing pain of my back.

  My eyes remain closed. Vaguely I wonder if I’m in my own room, if that could possibly be my parents talking to one another, but the more my mind focuses, the more alien the discussion becomes. Their voices lilt in a way that is completely foreign to my native tongue. So, too, are the smells of this place unique. Smoke and acrid earth meet my every inhale. This is not my home, or anywhere I’ve ever been before.

  I am in another world.

  Miraculously, I have survived my initiation into this place. I don’t think the same can be said of my monstrous attacker. Or his mutant horse. Perhaps not even of the jeering hordes that lined the hill behind him.

  My memory is fuzzy, but the recollection of that last, desperate moment is crystal clear. That caged and raging beast within me, once loosed, tore open the world in a burst of energy that shredded everything in its furious path. I’m not entirely sure at what point I lost consciousness, only that the terrible power nearly consumed me whole.

  Now, as I lie in darkness, I can sense its presence still. It has returned to its cage, where it sleeps in sheer and utter contentment.

  This is magic? A beast in a cage?

  Never in any of the fundamentals, intermediates, or superlatives does anyone refer to magic as sentient. It’s peaceful, flowing, tranquil, something one accesses with a calm mind and a serene heart.

  Neither of which I have ever possessed. Chart this up as yet another failure. I couldn’t even spark a candlewick until faced with imminent death. (And honestly, any candle would have been toast under the impact of what erupted from my hands.)

  That creature, seemingly content for the moment… can I ever possibly control it?

  The garbled voices end their conversation. My awareness of the inner beast recedes as footsteps approach me. My mind, on a tipping point between wakefulness and sleep, leans towards wakefulness.

  The pain on my back flares. A cool cloth has been removed, enflaming my injury. A woman utters something—pitying? Observational? A splash of water follows and the cloth is restored to my back, wet and icy.

  I drag my eyes open to view the smoky interior of a dimly lit tent.

  Ugh. Camping.

  The woman has turned away from me, her attention fixed upon a bowl of water, where she dunks and wrings out a cloth. She snaps the excess moisture from it and hangs it across a small line above her basin. Her quiet, methodical movements give me opportunity to observe her: small of frame, black hair in a knot at the nape of her neck. Her sleeves are pinned up above her elbows, her skin the color of cinnamon.

  She is responsible for my care, I assume.

  The furnishings inside the tent are worn and rudimentary. At the edge of my vision, I can make out an opening, but it seems to lead into another tent room rather than to the outside. The smoke that permeates the air is thicker in that direction. Its acrid vapors sting my senses.

  The woman turns from her work. Her dark eyes connect with mine and she stops short. Terror—panic—crosses her face, and immediately she bolts for that opening flap.

  “Kosi! Kosi, kosi!”

  I don’t know what “kosi” means, but this repetition precedes another string of unintelligible words. I muster my strength to push myself up from the cot upon which I lie, despite the screaming agony of my injured ribcage, but I pause no more than half an inch off the blanket beneath me before dropping back against it.

  I’m lying shirtless. Any movement on my part will expose my upper body.

  (Of course I’m shirtless. How else could that cold cloth be sitting against my skin?)

  Footsteps sound in the doorway behind me. The man has returned. He hangs upon that door flap, staring first at the woman and then at me. She whispers something in a questioning voice. He crosses the threshold slowly.

  My brows knit together in annoyance and embarrassment. I understand that treatment of my injury necessitates my shirtlessness, but couldn’t they have bound me up in bandages before I woke? Here I am, half-naked and flat on my stomach as a strange man approaches my bedside.

  He is black-haired and bearded, but younger than I took him at first glance. His brown eyes lock upon me. He actually kneels so that we are at eye level.

  Then he ducks his head further, as though praying. A string of words tumbles from his lips.

  Annoyance surges through me anew. On impulse, I gather the blanket beneath me with one hand and hold it to my chest as I sit up.

  My back is on fire. The wet cloth falls away. I’m guessing I have a few broken ribs to compliment the mangled flesh, but for the sake of my tattered dignity, I contain my reaction to a pained grimace.

  My movement alarms the man and woman both. The woman lunges, and the man, startled from his prayer, reaches for me instinctively, only to check himself before he makes any contact.

  The woman is bowing and ducking her head as she speaks, her expression one of fear and apology. She extends her hands, as though she’d like to help me lie down again but can’t bring herself to touch me.

  I’m grateful they’re keeping their distance, but they’re acting like I’m made of glass.

  “I can’t understand a word you’re saying,” I interrupt her speech. My voice rasps in my throat. My tongue is dry, like sandpaper. I look around
for something to drink. Is the water here even safe?

  The pair stares at me with their mouths open. I know they can’t understand me any better than I can them, but it feels good to talk, even with a dry mouth.

  “Thank you for taking care of me while I slept. I could really use a drink, if you have anything.” I pantomime raising a cup to my lips.

  The man and woman exchange an uncertain glance.

  “Do you drink things in this world?” I ask, and I make the motion again.

  He mutters something to her. She looks around, her head movements jerky, before her eyes settle on a small leather bag on a chair. This she snatches up, and then she proffers it to me at full arm’s length, as though she expects me to claw her fingers off if she comes too close. She drops her gaze away from me when I reach my free hand up to take the bag.

  It’s a water satchel… or a something satchel. Its innards slosh against their container. The bag tips up to a narrow corner, which is stopped by a plug of cork.

  I can’t open it without letting go of my sheet.

  I look down at the cork and then up again. The woman still won’t meet my eyes.

  “Open it, please,” I say to her, but she only flinches. I shift my attention to the man. “Open it,” I say, and I thrust the satchel at him.

  A nervous confusion skitters across his face, but he takes the sloshing item. After a questioning glance to the woman, he pries the cork free and holds the satchel aloft. Uncertainty lingers on his face.

  “Thank you.” I receive it again and sniff at the opening. Sourness emanates from the liquid depths.

  My sandpaper tongue doesn’t care if it’s sour as long as it’s wet. Throwing caution to the wind, I take a swig.

  And wince. Whatever is in that bag is fermented.

  “Thank you,” I say again, my face twisted with tempered disgust as I hand the satchel back to the man.

  The fear in his eyes has gone, replaced by curiosity and amusement. He replaces the cork. A question crosses his lips, but I cannot tell if it’s directed at me or at the woman.

  This whole lack of communication is ruining everything. But, if I’m stuck in this world, I might as well try to pick up a few things.

  “My name is Anjeni,” I say, and I pat my free hand over my heart. “Anjeni.”

  The man frowns. The woman gives up trying to avoid my notice and stares at my hand, a furrow between her brows.

  “Anjeni,” I say again, a little louder.

  The man, in his confusion, places one hand over his heart and repeats the word. “Anjeni.”

  “No.” I shake my head. Again I pat my hand to my heart. “I am Anjeni. Who are you?” I point to him.

  Understanding flashes through his eyes. He points his finger back at me. “Anjeni,” he says.

  I nod. “Yes. Who are you?” I point again.

  He looks wide-eyed to the woman. Again he repeats my name, pointing to me. “Anjeni.” Then, to my utmost relief, he puts his fist to his own heart and says, “Kosi.”

  So Kosi was his name. That makes sense. I look to the woman, and he does the same.

  Reluctantly, she brings her closed fist to hover over her heart. “Tolla,” she says, and she thumps her chest once, lightly.

  “Tolla,” I repeat. “Kosi. Kosi and Tolla. Anjeni. Thank you.”

  “Sankyu,” the man echoes, but he has no clue what he’s saying.

  Silence falls between us. I consider what else I might possibly say to the pair until a movement at the door draws both their attention. Kosi jumps to his feet, while Tolla backs away toward the wall. An old woman passes quietly through the door flap, her face an intricate pattern of wrinkles and her gray-streaked hair pulled back in a harsh bun. She halts upon seeing the two. Her attention shifts to me, and her weathered brows draw together as she looks back at them.

  “Ehhhhh,” she says, drawing out the noise in a menacing tone. There’s no mistaking her meaning. Apparently a rebuke sounds the same in any language, in any world. Kosi has his hands in the air and already skirts around her to the door, some glib excuse cascading off his tongue. Tolla tries to protest as well, but the old woman silences her with a simple hiss. She chastises Kosi as he ducks from the room, even going so far as to poke her head out of the flap to follow his retreat, so that she can finish her reprimand in full.

  Once she’s said her piece, she turns back to Tolla and me. In one hand she carries a small earthen pot. She lifts her index finger and gestures at me, pot and all, as more gibberish tumbles from her lips.

  Why am I getting scolded, exactly?

  Tolla interjects something that causes the old woman to pause. She peers at me as though inspecting a bejeweled gnat—half disbelief, half curiosity.

  “Hinahmus Anjeni,” says Tolla. I assume it’s an introduction.

  “Anjeni,” the old woman repeats.

  I decide to join the conversation. “Anjeni,” I confirm, patting my hand to my chest.

  The old woman rears back in mock appreciation. “Anjeni?” she says again, and then she launches into a quick-tongued harangue, gesturing with her pot hand and her free hand both, lecturing me. I gather from her gesticulations that she takes offense at my sitting up. Instantly, I lay flat upon the cot again.

  Tolla tries to interject something more, but that only turns the lecture her direction. The old woman, fully a head shorter, shakes a finger in her face and then points toward the door flap as she continues her tirade.

  I’m going to hazard a guess that Kosi was not supposed to be in the sick room.

  Tolla apologizes—that looks the same in any language, in any world too, apparently. She bobs her head and pleads until the old woman finally abandons the long-winded rebuke. The harridan turns back to me and, with a sullen voice, pronounces some instruction I can’t understand.

  Then, she pulls the cloth cover off the pot she’s holding and scoops out a handful of pungent brown goop. Before I can react, she slaps the mess onto my back, right across my injury.

  I gasp. She chides me as she fishes out more goop and spreads it liberally from my shoulder blade down to my waist.

  Her pungent brown concoction is medicine that burns and freezes at the same time. It smells of cloves and garlic and a dozen other spices mixed together.

  And all I can think is, if I don’t die of infection, I’m going to have a wicked-ugly scar.

  After she applies the medicine, though, she gestures for me to sit up. Tolla produces a roll of linen—the bandages I was wishing for back when Kosi entered the room. I swallow my embarrassment and allow them to wrap my torso. By the time they finish, I’m more covered than I would be on a trip to the beach.

  Beneath the fresh bandages, the pungent goop has numbed my injury. Perhaps the old medicine woman knows what she’s doing after all.

  She issues some curt orders to Tolla, who darts out of the room. I watch, curious, as the old woman shifts her attention to the wash basin across from me. She empties the dirty water into an earthenware container on the floor and refills the basin with fresh water from an urn beside it, just enough to wash her hands.

  Tolla returns with a bowl of soup and a hunk of rough bread. She proffers these items to the old woman, who is busy drying her hands.

  The old woman, with a string of disapproving words, gestures towards me. Tolla looks hesitant.

  I haven’t eaten since before abandoning my parents at the dinner table yesterday—or, what I assume was only yesterday. My stomach twists in knots as the soup’s savory, smoky aroma fills the air.

  “Is that for me?” I ask, hoping to overcome Tolla’s aversion towards approaching me. I reach my hands out to receive it.

  A hint of approval glimmers in the old woman’s eyes. Tolla, still skittish, hands me the warm bowl and the piece of bread. There’s no spoon. I sip from the bowl’s edge.

  Somehow, it’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. It lacks salt and spices, yet my shock-ridden mind finds comfort in its faint, savory flavor. I swallow it with
eager gulps.

  The bread is coarse, its edges blackened from the heat of the fire that cooked it. I don’t even care. It sops up the broth nicely and makes the meal more filling.

  “Thank you,” I say to Tolla and the old woman. They exchange a glance, uncomprehending.

  From beyond the door, Kosi’s voice sounds. A hand thrusts through the flap, holding a bundle of cloth. He continues speaking from the other side of the flap, shaking the cloth up and down. Tolla retrieves it from him and looks to the old woman for instruction.

  The crone mutters as she tips her head toward me.

  Tolla smooths the folded bundle as she approaches. The words she speaks are quiet, somewhat apologetic, as she offers the bundle to me.

  I set aside my bowl, my confusion mounting. The cloth is soft and silken, a buttery color. I unfold it to discover that it’s a dress with a line of embroidery around its collar and around the cuffs of its long bell sleeves.

  Kosi has brought me some clothes. How kind of him.

  The dress is handmade, but I can tell at a glance that its workmanship is fine. The details on the sleeves and collar remind me of the traditional costumes from my own people’s history. I look up at Tolla and the old woman. Their clothing is darker in color and rougher in weave, a more commonplace feel to it.

  This dress is special.

  “Is it all right?” I ask.

  The old woman takes the garment from my hands and moves to put it on me. She thinks I was asking for help.

  “I can do it,” I protest, but she’s already undertaken the task. On goes the dress, over my short hair and my bandaged body. It pools around my hips where I’m sitting. Wary of another scolding from the old woman, I venture to stand. The length of fabric falls to the ground. The dress with its high-waisted bodice is loose on my skinny frame. The sleeves fall to my knuckles, and the hem trails along the floor.

  Tolla watches me with a strange look in her eyes, as though she’s about to cry. Her stance is protective, one hand encircling her waist while the other picks at her lower lip.