by J A Hutson
“Hello!” I say, and he gasps, nearly toppling backwards. The horses flanking him grumble and shift, eyeing me with some suspicion.
I smile as warmly as I can. “I’m sorry to startle you. I’m a stranger here, and lost.”
The old man steadies himself and brings a hand up to the frame holding the windows over his eyes, squinting at me. He lets out a gabble of unintelligible nonsense, but from the intonation it sounds like a question.
I touch my chest with my hand. “My name is Talin.” Or, at least, that will do for now.
The man seems more curious than scared. He studies me, his gaze lingering on my muddy clothes and the sword at my side.
I hold my arms out wide. “I will not harm you,” I say, hoping my meaning is clear.
Apparently it is. He takes a few tentative steps in my direction, then pauses and strokes his mustache. I can almost hear the debate he’s having in his head. Finally he puts his open palm over his heart and bows slightly.
“Poziminius del Alate,” he says.
Is this his name? Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. I mirror his gesture, broadening my smile slightly. “Talin.”
“Talin,” he says, his accent making it sound more like “Tayin.” Close enough.
He peers at me for a moment longer and then turns, gesturing that I should follow. I do, keeping enough distance between us that he won’t get nervous. He takes up the halters of the horses again, whispering something that sounds soothing. One of the horses regards me with placid equanimity. The other one looks like he’ll try and take my ear off if I get too close.
The man leads the horses away from the water, along a narrow, well-trodden path that wends between the white stone ruins. This must be a popular way-stop for travelers. The town or complex gives off a sense of great age – I’d say centuries, at least, from the weathering of the structures and how in places ancient trees have grown up and through the buildings, their gnarled roots reaching down to devour the stone.
Beyond the ruins is a large field and a road of gray brick wide enough for a half-dozen men to walk shoulder to shoulder. The avenue is younger than the white stone buildings, certainly, though it’s also suffering from neglect: many of the bricks are missing or have crumbled to pieces, and beside the road the grass is trampled and furrowed. There’s a brightly colored covered wagon in a clearing near the road, a thin trickle of smoke rising from the far side.
The old man beckons at me again as he approaches the wagon. He calls out something, and a moment later a woman emerges from the wagon, pushing through a green curtain emblazoned with a strange red symbol.
She sees me and surprise shivers her face. Then she reaches back inside the wagon and pulls out something that looks much like a hewbow, except it’s smaller and more intricate. She points it at me and barks something in her language, and I raise my hands to try and show her that I’m not a threat.
The older man is saying something in the same soothing tone he used on the horses. The woman’s mouth twists and she replies harshly – I can guess that it’s something about him being a trusting fool. She descends the steps to the grass, keeping the weapon trained on me as she edges closer. The woman says something else, her expression telling me that she expects an answer.
“I’m sorry. I don’t speak your language,” I say.
Her eyes narrow as she studies me, much like the man’s had, though there’s less curiosity and more hostility. She’s also wearing the strange metallic frame that suspends two small windows in front of her eyes. Hers are so large and round they remind me a little unsettlingly of the fish-eyed Shriven. The woman is young, maybe only a little older than Valyra, and nearly as tall as I am. I can tell she’s slender, but her dress is shapeless, and like the man’s apron I can see that her garment is sewn with many pockets. She has the kind of long-limbed thinness that could be called willowy on a graceful woman and gawky on an awkward one. From the way she’s holding the weapon I’d say she falls more on the gawky side of the divide.
The man says something that sounds decisive and begins briskly walking towards the wagon. She glances at him and there’s frustration in her face, but she lets him go. He disappears inside and the woman and I share a few moments of uncomfortable silence. I smile as warmly as I can and she scowls while keeping the weapon pointed at my head. I begin to consider how fast I can close the distance between us and whether I can disarm her before she releases the trigger.
The man shoves the curtain aside and comes clattering down the steps waving something in his hand. It’s small and brown and twisted, like the root of a plant. He hurries towards us, beaming, and looks about to stride up to me when the woman yells something at him and he freezes. The man sighs and rolls his eyes and breaks the brown object into two pieces, then tosses one of them to me. I catch it – it is indeed a root, although so gnarled and ancient it appears to have been dug up a long time ago. Still smiling, the man makes a motion with the half of the root he’s holding that I should put it in my mouth. My skepticism must be obvious because he takes a nibble from his piece, and then raises his face to the sky and spreads out his arms like he’s just received some divine revelation. The woman rolls her eyes at these theatrics, and I briefly consider whether I would rather put this disgusting thing in my mouth or try and take her weapon away before she can fire.
Sigh. I suppose if he meant to kill me with poison it would simply make more sense to let his companion shoot me. I put the end of the root in my mouth and bite down, ignoring the taste of grit and dirt.
Tough. Fibrous. I have to chew for a while before it’s soft enough that I can swallow.
Should I eat more? Will she finally lower that weapon if I do? I examine the yellow flesh of the root that I’ve exposed with my bite, wondering if it would taste any better boiled.
“Can you understand me now?”
I nearly drop the root. It’s the man who has spoken, but his words make sense. “Uh, yes,” I say slowly.
The man claps his hand together. “Excellent! I’d feared there would be some degradation of its potency.”
I gaze at the gnarled root in my hand with wonderment.
The woman sighs in exasperation. “Where in the name of all the tainted saints did you come from that you’ve never eaten babbleroot before?”
“Babbleroot?”
“That’s just the colloquial name used in these backwater parts,” the man says apologetically, giving the woman a look of reproach. “And we of all people should strive for accuracy. The gray scholars who are its cultivators call it ennocosia.”
For some absolutely bizarre reason that word actually resonates in the back of my mind. A memory drifts up from somewhere – and this by itself is shocking, as it’s the first thing I’ve remembered from my past. I’m standing in a great field of turned earth . . . but the flowers blooming around me in neat rows are emerging from grinning skulls, the tops of which have been sheared clean off so they can be transformed into planters.
“I see . . . skulls lined up like crops?”
The man’s eyes light up in excitement. “Aha! Bellamina, what did I tell you? That Veshian insisted that this ennocosia was from the head of a gray scholar. Oh, I do hope I’m graced with a few of his recollections.”
The woman finally lowers her weapon. “You really don’t know anything,” she says to me in mild astonishment.
I hold my arms out helplessly. “I don’t.”
“Come, come,” the old man says, beckoning for me to follow him again. As I pass the woman she shakes her head and frowns, but she seems to have decided that I’m not an immediate threat. Around the other side of the wagon a kettle is suspended on a copper frame over a small fire, and the man waves for me to take a seat in the grass.
“Sit. Have some tea. My name is Poziminius del Alate, and this is my daughter, Bellamina. Poz and Bell will do.” Using a cloth to protect his hand, he lifts the kettle from the fire and pours its steaming contents into a ceramic cup. “How exciting to meet a
traveler from distant lands.”
“Why can I understand you now?” I ask as the man passes me the cup. Across from me Bellamina sits cross-legged, the weapon still in her lap.
The glass in front of his eyes has fogged, and the man wipes it clean with the cloth in his hand. “The gray scholars of the Fastness are some of the world’s greatest botanists, and they keep themselves in silk and jewels by growing the ennocosia weed, which has become absolutely essential to diplomacy and trade.”
I blow on the tea and take a sip – bitter, but invigorating. “How so?”
“Well, the gray scholars discovered – and don’t ask me how – that when an ennocosia seed is inserted into the brain of the recently deceased, the plant that issues forth will boast rather remarkable properties. Some of the knowledge of the host is absorbed by the weed, and, when consumed, this is passed along to whoever has eaten it. Proficiency in language is what’s usually imprinted, but sometimes the odd memory or skill transfers as well. From what you’ve remembered, it seems this weed grew out of the skull of a gray scholar, just as the trader who sold it to me claimed. How exciting!” Poz takes a loaf of brown bread that has been warming beside the fire and breaks it into three pieces, handing the largest to me. “Though it is a little surprising,” he muses, watching me with interest, “that you remember the Sepulture Fields of the Fastness. Usually the few memories that are transferred are quickly subsumed within one’s already extensive remembrances.”
“Actually,” I say around a mouthful of the crusty bread, “I can only remember the last few days. There’s not much else in my head.”
“Aha!” cries the old man, slapping his leg. “You have amnesia! That would explain why you don’t know about ennocasia . . . I’ve never heard of language being lost because of a blow to the head, but perhaps with a period of observation we will have something new to add to the literature of the condition.”
“No . . . no. I don’t know your language because I’ve come here from another world.”
The woman snorts a laugh as the old man’s face falls. “Oh,” he says. “Insanity will complicate things. Less likely for the academies to accept you as a legitimate case study.”
“I’m not insane! I passed through a glowing doorway and ended up at the bottom of the pond where you just watered your horses.”
That . . . was not very convincing. I hesitate before providing any more details of where I came from – stories of monstrous creatures and broken skies might not be the best way to demonstrate that I’m of sound mind.
“Hm. A glowing doorway.”
“Yes, some strange sorcery brought me here.”
Poz shakes his head, sighing. “There is no such thing as sorcery, my dear boy. Just science that has not yet been fully explained.”
I hold up the root I’m still carrying. “What is this, then?”
“Botany, of course,” the old man says in a tone that suggests I’ve overlooked something incredibly obvious. “Sorcery is a crutch for the ignorant to explain away what they do not understand. But when the layers are peeled away there is always a hard, immutable kernel of science.”
“You’re telling me that I have the memories of a dead scholar floating around in my head and that’s not magic?”
“Science.”
“Impossible. Also, I’ve met a man who could summon cutting light from his hands and a woman who could knit flesh back together by her touch alone.”
The old man shrugs. “Well, without a firsthand experience with these occurrences, I cannot tell you how they happened. Perhaps the man had some refracting device or crystal concealed in his hands to make it appear like he was conjuring forth this ‘cutting light’. But I assure you, there is a scientific explanation.”
“Or you’re delusional,” the young woman says, leaning back on her elbows in the grass. She looks like she’s finding this exchange entertaining.
“Possibly insane,” adds the old man helpfully.
“I’m not insane.”
Bell picks out something from between her teeth and flicks it away. “That’s what an insane person would say.”
I give an exasperated sigh. “And also anyone who was sane.”
She shrugs. “So we are at an impasse.” I can’t decide if her impish grin is annoying or attractive.
The old man raises his hand in his daughter’s direction. “Now, now, Bell. Our guest has obviously taken a serious blow to the head, and his mind is no doubt addled.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Please. I had some companions –”
“Before you went through the glowing door?” asks Bell in what I suspect is mock seriousness.
“Yes. They also passed into this world with me. They all have red or brown hair, and one man has a sword of red glass.”
“We haven’t seen them,” says Poz. The unspoken if they exist hangs between us. “But we are only recent travelers in these parts.”
I rub my face, tamping down my frustration. Travelers? My gaze slides from their strange pocketed clothing to the objects perched on their noses to their colored wagon festooned with bags and iron instruments. “What are you? Merchants?”
Poz looks mildly affronted. “Merchants? By the saints, no. We are natural philosophers. Itinerant scientists. I was once an associate professor at the Collegium of Varakesh, and I have taught Bellamina so well that if they ever open the exams to the fairer sex she will set a new standard with her score.”
“What in the name of the dead gods do itinerant scientists do?”
“The question should be what can’t we do. Crops failing? Our knowledge of botany can help. Disease rampant? Aha! We know the most recent medical advances. Need metals transmuted? Well, we can try, though no promises. Lunar phases and their effect on the liquids of the cerebellum explained so you know when to confine the psychotic? That can be quite useful, by the way. Siege weapons designed for breaking the walls of an impregnable fortress?”
“This is what you do?” I say quickly, interrupting his speech, which was growing alarmingly impassioned. “Wander around solving problems with your . . . science?”
Poz and his daughter share a quick glance. “Usually,” says the old man. “But presently we are employed as couriers by the Contessa. We are transporting a rather rare and dangerous substance to her estate in Ysala, the City of Masks.”
It seems far-fetched that anything of value could be inside their ancient wagon, and I don’t bother trying to hide my skepticism. “And you have no guards? Just a girl with a miniature hewbow?”
The old man’s watery blue eyes blink in confusion. “Hewbow? Ah, you are referring to Bellamina’s crossbow. She’s a crack shot, I’ll have you know.” A pained expression crosses his face. “But you are correct. Normally we would not venture forth without an armed escort, even in these very civilized lands. Unfortunately, we were forced to part ways yesterday with the sword we hired.”
Bell snorts again. “He ran away with a serving wench when we were at a tavern eating dinner.”
“Quite a pretty young lady,” sighs Poz, shaking his head. “But Tervik was no dashing warrior. A bit heavy in the middle and thin on the top, honestly.”
“The sight of a handsome face and a sword turns the heads of some girls soft,” Bell says, her tone suggesting what she thinks of those women. “As I’m sure you know.” She gives me a withering look, as if to make pointedly clear that this does not describe her.
The old man clears his throat loudly. “Yes, well. Tervik’s absconsion is yet another reason why our meeting here is so fortuitous. You are suffering from a brain malady, and I am perhaps the best man in a hundred leagues to assist you in overcoming your condition. Furthermore, we could use a stout arm to help deter any would-be bandits. Despite the peacefulness of these lands, robberies are not entirely unheard of.”
I’m struggling to keep up with what Poz is saying – either the babbleroot hasn’t taken hold fully yet, or the old man has a significantly larger vocabulary than the gray sch
olar whose brain it grew out of.
“So what say you, friend? Will you accompany us? If your companions are anywhere in these lands they will find their way to Ysala, I promise you. All roads around here lead to the City of Masks.”
6
We follow alongside the crumbling brick road, the wagon’s wheels finding well-worn furrows in the trampled grass. As the white stone ruins dwindle behind us the forest begins to encroach upon the way, and in the distance I can see the jagged peaks of mountains gnawing at the sky.
Bell sits in the driver’s seat, a switch in her hand that she never seems to use, while her father retreats inside the wagon to, in his words, ‘reacquaint himself with the accepted literature on memory loss.’ I walk beside the wagon, sometimes on the gray brick road and sometimes in the long grass. Bright yellow butterflies flutter through the air, and the droning hiss of cicadas floats from the trees.
It seems beyond belief that just a few days ago I was being chased by monsters through a red waste, and now here I am enjoying a stroll in these idyllic lands. Is Valyra somewhere out there, staring up in wonder at the blue sky? Are the tattered remnants of her tribe being led by her brother? Is she still able to weave in a world roamed by itinerant scientists who scoff at sorcery?
I’ve moved on to daydreaming about Valyra’s beautiful face and substantial curves when Bell clears her throat.
“That’s a rather ridiculous smile,” she says, and I return to the present. “You look like you’re floating in the clouds. Some pleasant memories coming back?”
I swipe at a few of the gray and white puffballs sticking up from the grass, scattering seeds to the wind. “Just from the last few days.”
“In the other world?”
“Yes.”
“What was it like?” Surprisingly, the question doesn’t sound patronizing.
