by Wagner, Raye
Esi huffed, and I hurried to keep up. She said nothing for several minutes, but eventually she turned to me and frowned.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Things have always been a bit different in Qralî ever since the magî came here, right? At least that’s what the legends say. Come on. We really only have a couple miles left, I think.”
As we walked, she told me about Pûleêr, how they’d elected a council and the entire post worked together for the betterment of the whole. She purported that no one went hungry, and the rules were fair and kept the entire outpost safe. “There’s a sense of comradery,” she said with a grin. “You’ll make lots of friends.”
I nodded, instinctively distrustful of any claim to utopia. She continued, detailing the layout of the post, including the two rivers, the latter with a beautiful waterfall.
“That sounds lovely.” And refreshing. “Let’s go there first.”
She chuckled. “You do need a bath.”
The anticipation drove me to pick up my pace for the better part of a quarter hour, but my legs felt like overcooked plantains.
As the afternoon sun dipped, I glanced up at the canopy. “How much longer?”
Esi snorted. “This usually takes me seven hours, and we’ve been walking for over eight. You’re definitely not from a western outpost.”
Which would mean I was from one of the innerposts, closer to the capital, or the other side of Qralî.
“How can you tell?” I asked.
“By how slow you walk, your vernacular, and the quantity of worthless knowledge you spout.”
I couldn’t protest on my speed, but the rest? “What do you mean, vernacular?” I asked, grimacing. “You say ‘fetid rot’ just as much as I do, and you haven’t used a single word I didn’t know except ‘bûyî.’ And I was familiar with the word, but the context has changed, apparently. And what worthless knowledge are you referencing?”
The trail we walked on shifted from packed dirt to sticky mud. As we distanced ourselves from the Little Rê and drew near Pûleêr, the sounds of people crawled down the path toward us. We turned the bend, and ahead a guard post overlooked the lower layers of the rainforest.
“Partly, it’s how you talk. I say ‘fetidrot,’ as though it were one word; the d often never makes it into the conversation. You say ‘Fetid. Rot.’ Two words, and ‘fetid’ has a hard d.”
I pursed my lips just as a monkey hollered through the trees above.
“What?” she said. “You can’t hear the difference?”
I nodded. “Yes, but that’s not vernacular, it’s diction. The way we enunciate our words.”
Esi snorted. “Exactly. You just proved both my points.”
We passed by the bell tower, and Esi waved at the male standing at the top. Around the next corner, we stepped into a massive clearing, and I froze, a tingling familiarity washing over me.
Examining the area, I searched for a reason why it felt familiar, even though I couldn’t remember ever being here. Somehow I knew the long building to my left, open on three sides, was a communal kitchen, even if the smell of roasting meat hadn’t given it away. Under the roof, a long counter ran the length of the structure where dozens of people talked as they chopped and stirred, preparing a meal. Close to fifty rectangular tables and twice as many benches occupied the space in front of the kitchen, enough to seat at least a thousand, with tall poles supporting countless thatched roofs over the communal space.
Finished scrutinizing the area, I realized nothing else—and no one—sparked that same curious feeling like I’d been here before. “Are all the posts laid out the same?”
“I’ve only been to a few—three, to be exact—and yes, they’re all laid out this way now.”
I jerked my head to the side to stare at her. “Now? As in they didn’t used to be?”
She nodded. “When the world goes to rot, you either adapt and survive or cling to the past and die. In Pûleêr, we adapted,” she said. “The posts that didn’t change are gone, swallowed up by the bûyî.”
The bell behind us clanged, the sound ringing out in a wave, undulating beyond the borders of the post. As if the bell had released them from the jungle’s hold, the magî of Pûleêr spilled into the clearing. Males, females, and children all dressed in simple clothes—a short sulu wrap for the males; tunics, or skirts and bandeau tops for the females—were splattered and filthy with muck.
I scanned the clearing, rapidly filling with the population, and had an epiphany. Even in a post this small, there would be enough different abilities to need to barter and trade. Turning to Esi, I asked, “Where’s the market?”
Her gaze darkened, and she scanned the crowd before she turned to me and said, “We don’t have a market in Pûleêr.”
No market? Every innerpost and outpost had a market, where goods, services, and, most importantly, magîk were bought or exchanged. If one post didn’t have what an individual wanted, they could go to a different one, and because everyone had magîk to some degree, everyone had something to barter.
I narrowed my eyes, but before I could ask, she reminded me, “No magîk means the Serîk don’t bother to come. It was the best way we could adapt.”
The people drew near, and their furtive glances and whispers crawled over to me. Esi remained where she stood, ignoring me and the growing line at the kitchen as she studied the magî. I stood rooted next to her, feeling awkward. Esi occasionally greeted one or two of the group, but not once did she introduce me. As the seconds ticked by, I stopped caring.
This close to the citizens, I noticed details I’d missed at first glance. Contrary to Esi’s claims, the magî were not equally dirty, and not all of their clothing was equally worn. Some of them were even laughing and completely clean. I turned to say something to Esi, but her intense expression suddenly pinched.
Not even a minute later, the last of the magî passed inside the kitchen. Esi heaved a deep breath and said, “Let’s go get dinner.”
Finally.
We stepped into the kitchen, where Esi grabbed two wooden plates and then handed one to me. “You can eat as much as you want of anything grown in the jungle.”
I nodded and rose on my tiptoes, searching for the source of the delicious smell. “How much meat do we get?”
“None,” she said. “We didn’t do any work. Though maybe we’ll get cheese. Tomorrow, if we work hard and the supply is good, we’ll get a fair portion.”
Fair? I was about to point out the disparity between the utopia she’d purported on our walk and what I’d seen thus far, but maybe I was missing the bigger picture. I snorted because obviously I was missing the bigger picture.
I followed Esi through the line and held my plate out for rice, beans, plantains, fruit, and luckily a scoop of cheese. A woman named Dostane worked in the kitchen, and she was responsible for the small mounded desserts made of ground nuts, coconut, and sugar. The fare was simple but satisfying.
We found seats at an empty table, and an older male magî got up and said a few words about work assignments. Esi scowled when he said her name, tossing a portion of her shade across the table to me. I ate silently, observing the magî, and less than a quarter hour later, Esi announced we were done. I shoved the confection in my mouth and chased after her.
She led me to the other side of the kitchen, where several large barrels stood surrounded by a dozen magî, and looked at me expectantly.
“You wash the dishes?” I asked.
Esi raised her eyebrows. “Yep. Let’s get to it so we can get back to my place. I’m ready to be done with the day.”
Almost in unison, five magî grabbed plates, scraped the remainder of food into a trough at their feet, and then turned to drop the plates in one of the barrels. Two to three people surrounded each barrel, some scrubbing and others rinsing, and a separate group of magî stacked the dishes on a wheeled rack. I watched and mimicked her actions, relieved when she nodded her approval of my efforts.
“Who’s your friend,
Esi?” a male asked. “Did you finally convince someone from Terit to see the truth?”
“That post has more pride than Yândarî,” a female groused. “They’ll never fully stop using magîk, and the Serîk will rape them of their best.” She turned to me and added, “Is that why you left? Or are you planning on going home after you see how we do things?”
The group quieted, and my heart thudded. I glanced at Esi, but she ignored me, keeping her gaze averted.
“I don’t intend to go back home until I know the truth,” I said evasively.
Esi harrumphed and then splashed me with the dirty water. “This is Taja. I found her wandering on the Little Rê and brought her home with me. Maybe she’ll figure out the meaning of the bûyî and get rid of the kümdâr.”
My jaw dropped, and even though several people in the group chuckled, the tension didn’t dispel.
A female muttered, “Sure, and maybe the Zîv will come for a visit, too.”
I grimaced with confusion until Esi caught my eye and shook her head, mouthing, “Not here.”
I tucked my head and let their voices swell around me while I worked.
“You better hope the Zîv doesn’t ever come here, or he’ll bring Serîk guards with him.”
A magî grunted, and then another one of the group said, “We live in Pûleêr. He won’t ever come here.”
But then they all looked at me, as if maybe he would—and it would be my fault.
Maybe I was safer with Ruin.
7
“Here’s my home,” Esi said, waving at an enclosed structure, the front door made of metal from a bygone era, warped and stained in a plethora of colors: pink, blue, green, and gray. She grinned with apparent pride, and I forced my lips upward as I cringed inside.
The house—could I even call it that?—was no more than fifteen feet wide, and it didn’t appear to be any longer than its width. The other three sides were wood, mostly planks of the same size, hammered to support beams. The roof was thatch, and I anticipated wet nights when the rain would seep through the barrier to wake me.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Esi said.
There was no possible way she could know.
“Why is she out here all by herself?” Esi asked in a high, nasally voice. “Why not be closer to the center of Pûleêr? Especially because of the bûyî…”
Glancing around the clearing, I noticed the new growth was glaringly obvious against the backdrop of established plants, but with her words, I whipped my head toward her and found her grinning. But was I reading her well? Forcing a smile I didn’t feel, I said, “I do not sound like that.”
“But that’s what you were thinking,” she said. She stepped past the house and gestured for me to follow. “Rull was supposed to have someone keep it clear. We’ll have to do it in the morning now. Come on, I’ll show you the real reason I live out here by myself.”
A low bleating sound greeted us as we rounded the corner, and a real smile blossomed on my lips. A small pen, empty except for a lean-to and its occupants, was tucked up next to the back of the house. “You have goats?”
“Just the two. There are only a few left here, so it’s a real privilege.”
I followed her, much like a lost kid, grinning when I saw the nannies, identifiable by the engorged udders, waiting behind the gate. Whoever I was, I clearly enjoyed the company of animals.
A mottled black goat stood at the entrance, crying, and the other, brown and white, moaned as she got to her feet. The growth of the forest floor and undercanopy beneath them was shorn to less than an inch by the goats’ obvious voracious appetites—which was good, considering what Esi told me of the bûyî.
“What the rot?” she grumbled after she opened the gate and slipped through. She grabbed a pail and, grousing about not trusting some jackass to tend the goats ever again, pulled up a stool and began milking. “Go grab another stool from inside and start with Bizi. Poor dears.”
I dashed back to the front of her house and yanked on the metal handle. The entire structure trembled, but the door barely moved an inch.
Esi shouted, “Just slide it open, baja!”
Rolling my eyes at her insult, I pushed against the handle and slid the thick piece of metal open. I grabbed the first boxlike structure I saw and then squinted into the darkness for a pail.
“Hurry up, Taja. Bizi isn’t feeling patient right now!”
“Neither are you,” I grumbled. I scoured the darkened interior of Esi’s home, but the space was filled with mounds of stuff. The clink of metal rang with my next step. Aha! “Found it!”
I jogged back to the pen, and the brown goat hobbled to me, nosing my leg as she passed to settle near the pail.
“Uh,” I stammered, staring at the teats, “do I just pull?”
“Don’t you dare!” Esi glanced over her shoulder, her panicked expression fading when she saw me sitting still. After a loud exhale, she said, “Wipe the teats first, so we don’t have to drink the mud. Either that, or you can explain to Rull why the milk tastes terrible.”
There was bite to her warning. A lot. “Who’s Rull?”
“The head of the council,” she said, raising her eyebrows. When I said nothing, she continued, “The old magî who assigned us dishes. He announces all the assignments.”
But her tone indicated that he did more than just announce them.
“He didn’t seem that old,” I said, reflecting. Nope—not a single male or female with white or even gray hair. If I had to guess, the oldest person was maybe forty. Old, but not that old. And with the amount of magîk in Qralî, the lifespan was greater, or it had been. “Where are the old magî? Why aren’t there any here?”
Esi swore. “The older magî were the first group called to Yândarî. Zerôn wanted to gather the ‘wisdom of experience.’ We were told great honor would be heaped upon them. Pretty sure the only thing heaped on them was dirt.”
She stated the information with the dispassionate tone of ancient history, but all I could do was stare. The idea that a ruler would slaughter the older generation was unbelievable—even if only because of their knowledge.
“Did they all die?” I asked.
“Don’t know,” she said, keeping her expression blank. “Anyway, Rull is one of our eldest now.” She narrowed her eyes and then huffed. “Do you want to learn how to milk a goat or not?”
No. Yes. Maybe. What I wanted was my memory or, better yet, for something—anything—to make sense. Even more, I wanted to believe I was lucky Esi found me and not a Serîk, but her mood swings made me wonder. Not that I had another option right now. I took a deep breath and said, “Yes.”
Esi proceeded to walk me through the process step-by-step, and a few minutes later, a splatter of warm milk hit the bottom of the pail. I continued to knead and squeeze, losing myself in the rhythmic activity. Roll-squeeze… roll-squeeze.
“Clearly you’ve milked a goat before,” Esi said from behind me several minutes later.
I glanced down at the milk, not even an inch from the rim, and grinned, feeling as if I’d learned another thing about myself. I patted and thanked the goats and then followed Esi over to a rock-filled basin in the enclosure, watching as she built a small fire and heated the milk to make cheese.
“It tastes really good if we add herbs,” she said, stirring in some lemon juice. “But it’s too late to grow or even harvest any today.” She darted a glance into the darkened jungle.
Indeed. We were both squinting as we finished scooping the curds into a thin fabric sheet. Esi tied up the bundle and then motioned toward her house.
“Grab the other pail and come on,” she said, hefting the pack of cheese and one of the pails. She waited for me at the gate, looking out at the jungle. “Ah, Taja?”
“What?” I asked, stumbling toward her, my eyes barely open.
“Is that panthera your pet?” she asked.
I jolted upright, my eyes wide as shock woke me from my stupor. “Panthera?”
&nbs
p; “The black panthera that was with you on the road. He followed us all the way to Pûleêr. I just saw him”—she jerked her chin toward the wall of plants—“again. I don’t want him thinking the goats are an easy snack.”
What could I say? “I’ll tell him, but he’s not really mine. I don’t think you can own a panthera like you do a goat.”
“Probably not.” She took a deep breath and hefted her load of milk and cheese. “Either way, since he seems attached to you, will you tell him not to eat the goats, or me?”
I blinked, stunned with how casual she was acting, and stammered, “Uh, of course.”
She pushed open the gate, and the goats followed her toward the front of the house, while I walked to the edge of the verdant growth.
The black panthera stepped out from the jungle, his wide eyes luminous in the low light. My heart jumped as he approached. I crouched and looked him in the eye. “Hey, Ruin. Don’t eat Esi or her goats. I have a feeling she wouldn’t forgive us.”
He responded by dipping his head and purring, the low rumble in his chest soothing my frayed nerves.
I stroked his head and then kissed where I’d just petted him. “Good night,” I whispered. “If you want to stick around and make sure we’re safe, I’m not going to protest.” Guilt zinged through me. “But make sure you’re taking care of you, too.”
Ruin pressed his nose to my cheek, and I stilled. I had no idea what the gesture meant, but it was obviously significant, and it felt like he was telling me yes.
“Thanks,” I said. Then I stood, dusting off my tunic. “I’ll see you in the morning.” With that I lifted the pail, reconsidered, and then set it down. “Here you go. You can have this. I don’t think we’ll need it.”
After all his watchful care, feeding him was the least I could do.
8
The clang of a bell startled me from sleep, and I sat up blinking in the near darkness. The room swam and then settled, solidifying around me as the world of dreams ebbed and my memories of the last few days flowed. At least I had that going for me now.
