by K Schultz
Smudges of clouds, as if painted with a god-sized brush, dappled the sky’s perfect azure surface and promised fair weather. Rehaak stopped and filled his waterskin in the stream before he crossed the western bridge and began his journey. The road led away from Twinbridge and became a rutted trail through a grassy plain that stretched for miles in every direction. New Hope lay somewhere ahead, and as his journey dragged on, the waterskin grew lighter despite his efforts to ration his supply. Eventually Rehaak’s water ran out. The sawtooth blades of neck-high grass heaved in the wind like ocean waves and taunted him in this waterless sea of grass.
Sundown found Rehaak cotton-mouthed, as parched and dusty as the trail behind him. The temperature dropped once darkness descended. Rehaak used his dagger to saw through the fibrous dead grass, the only fuel available, and lit a tiny blaze to warm himself. Before long, sparks from his fire ignited nearby vegetation, and by the time he stamped out the fire, sweat carved rivulets through the soot on his face, but at least he was warm.
Rehaak arose in darkness before the sunrise, not by choice and not happily. He had piled dry grasses under his bedroll and mounded more grass atop himself to keep the chill from penetrating his blanket and nocturnal insects from penetrating his sensitive skin. His strategy had resulted in partial success, as the itchy red welts on his skin bore witness. His joints popped as he tried to ease the kink in his back and avoid scratching the bug bites, but he met with limited success on both counts. After a meager breakfast, Rehaak set out again. He ignored his thirst while the sun warmed and eased the ache in his back.
Rehaak considered returning to Twinbridge, but he trudged onward until a dark shadow line appeared on the horizon, revealing trees ahead. It was still miles to the tree line, how much farther it was to water he could not guess. “At least I’ll find shade under the trees,” he said aloud just to hear his own voice, although there was no silence to break. Hoppers chirped, birds called to each other, and the grass rustled with every stray breeze, but the grassland felt desolate and silent despite the noise. Visions of shaded pools in the forest lured him forward.
When Rehaak had first asked about the town of New Hope, the innkeeper had said, “If you follow the trail west, you will soon get to New Hope.” However, he’d been vague about the distance. Rehaak’s tablemates had smiled and nodded at the innkeeper’s statement. On this, the second day of plodding through the arid grassy plain, Rehaak suspected the vagueness was their idea of a joke. Rehaak had joined in their laughter at New Hope’s residents, but now he wondered if they had laughed at him instead of laughing with him.
When he first set out, New Hope seemed a suitable name for a destination, a name full of portents of prosperity and fulfillment. Now, the better part of two long, blistering days and one interminable icy night later, he changed his mind. New Hope became a faint hope for relief as Rehaak plodded along on feet covered in oozing blisters. He muttered curses at Twinbridge’s people for taking advantage of his ignorance and cursed himself for being gullible. Desperate, he hoisted the waterskin to his parched lips and squeezed the last few drops onto his tongue.
Chance Meeting
Noises coming from the trail behind Rehaak roused him from his thoughts. He turned to investigate the rumbling and creaking. A large freight wagon pulled by four gigantic mithun plodded up the trail toward him. The townsfolk at the inn had somehow neglected to inform him of a freight service between Twinbridge and New Hope, probably their idea of a joke.
Rehaak, incensed by their vicious hillbilly humor, plopped his sweat-stained backside beside the wagon-trail and waited for the cart to draw even with him. Maybe the drover had water to spare. Rehaak stewed in equal parts sweat and anger while swatting at the chiggers and gnats landing on him.
The team advanced at a steady walk, and their drover plodded along beside them. The mithun were between six and seven feet tall at the shoulder hump; nose to tail they must have been at least twelve feet long. The drover had fastened heavy wooden yokes around their enormous necks. The mithun’s large ears flicked back and forth, frustrating clouds of insects trying to land on them. The massive wagon they pulled was no burden to such enormous, powerful creatures. The mithun plodded along in the tracks carved into the soil by previous journeys. Dust rose and roiled in lazy clouds with each step of their cloven hooves before it settled onto the earth again or sank onto their mottled black-and-tan hides.
Damn those people at the inn. This is a regular freight route. Those ropemakers swilled the brew I bought for them and probably laughed their heads off after I left. They knew full well I faced long days of tramping and sweating by day and shivering by night, while swarms of insects nearly drained me of blood.
To them, I was just another uppity city boy, a stupid city dweller, too dumb to know any better and too arrogant to realize it. They probably sniggered inside while they schemed to bring me down a peg.
Rehaak stood, waved a greeting, and called out to the dark-skinned figure with the wide-brimmed grass hat. Deep shadows under the hat brim hid the drover’s face. The fellow carried a stout staff that doubled as a tool to herd the beasts and a weapon for defense. The drover’s clothes were dustier than Rehaak’s, threadbare and tattered like the person wearing them.
The person under the hat had not yet responded, so Rehaak held his place to appear non-threatening. When they were a few paces apart, the team stopped. The beasts’ tails flicked in lazy irritation at the flies taking advantage of the pause in movement. The mithun’s hides twitched wherever flies landed, frustrating the insects’ opportunity to gain a meal of mithun blood.
“Hello,” croaked the stranger in a squeaky voice as cracked as parched earth and an accent as thick as the soil from which he could have sprung. The drover stepped toward Rehaak, saying, “If you be intent on mischief, I warns you now that there ain’t naught worth havin’ on this wagon. The lazy beasts pullin’ it won’t move ‘less I go with ‘em, and this wagon be mighty heavy to be pullin’ by yourself. And I ain’t an easy nut for you to crack with that staff o’ yours.” The drover spat into the dust to punctuate his statement.
“I am a traveler, good sir, headed for the village of New Hope, where I plan, God willing, to make my new home.”
The man drew closer. Rehaak saw the man’s dark eyes shining with mirth under the shadow of the hat. The bastard was grinning. It wasn’t a pleasant grin. He was missing some teeth. No, make that many teeth.
“Ah,” the fellow said. “Another pilgrim from the city, come to seek fame and fortune in No Hope. Another lost soul on the road.” A chuckle issued from the shadowed face. “The folk at the Lone Wolf Inn warned me I might find such as yourself on the road. A paying customer, they says, if the wolves ain’t et him or if he ain’t froze to death. Thought it right funny too, they did.”
Cold fury filled Rehaak, but damned if he would let this bumpkin make him the butt of their country humor. Rehaak pasted a smile on his cracked lips and extended his hand in greeting. “I thought it was a pleasant day for a stroll. I needed to air out my clothes to remove the stench of that nasty pigsty calling itself a town back yonder,” he said mildly, smiling, his hand outstretched.
Laughter exploded from under the wide-brimmed hat. The man held his sides, and tears streamed from his eyes while he snorted and gasped, trying to catch his breath.
“Do you need aid? I am a skilled healer,” Rehaak said, raising one eyebrow. “When you have calmed yourself, I would be happy to accompany you the rest of the way to New Hope. Do these fits overtake you often, sir?”
Rehaak paused, walked over, and patted the shoulder of the man, who was helpless with mirth. The fellow was wheezing and struggling to breathe, coughing and hacking, but the laughter stopped when he gasped for breath. Rehaak became alarmed, but the drover regained his composure and said, “You has metal in you, I declare. I didn’t expect you to be so far this mornin’.”
“Let’s just say I got an early start.” Rehaak watched without c
omment as the drover went to the rear of the wagon and pulled up the dusty tarp covering the load. He produced a large wooden tankard from a pile of gear inside the wagon bed. He inverted the mug, smacked it with his palm to knock out the dust, blew out the rest, and filled it from a barrel on the wagon. He downed the water, then turned to Rehaak.
“It be usual to git payment for water, stranger. In your case I’ll be askin’ for naught from you, except the entertainment you done give me,” he said, still smiling. The drover filled the tankard again and offered it to Rehaak.
“I dare not refuse your generosity, good sir. For the sake of politeness, if for no other reason, I accept your gift.” Rehaak smiled and bowed with a flourish.
The man resumed giggling when he handed Rehaak the mug. Rehaak snatched it from his hand, fearful the drover would renege on the offer. The water was tepid and stale, but Rehaak savored it more than the premium wines of Narragan. It carved a moist river through the dusty desert of his throat.
“There be no room on the wagon, but we kin walk together if you likes. I expects you’ll be more entertainin’ than most folks I gets to meet.”
“If your last statement is true, you need a wider circle of acquaintances,” Rehaak said. “No offense intended, sir.”
“None took,” the man said. “But I ain’t no sir.”
“How shall I address you then, my good fellow?”
“You sure talk funny. I ain’t your ‘good fellow’ neither. In fact, I ain’t no fellow at all,” he said and struggled with another bout of giggling.
“What do you mean?” Rehaak tilted his head and raised one eyebrow.
“I be a woman, but don’t go gettin’ no funny ideas. I knows how to handle mithun, and men ain’t that much different than them dumb critters. A good whack up the side of the head’ll put right any critter, whether man or beast. Course, you are kinda cute and all.” She smiled at Rehaak in her version of a seductive manner.
Instead of arousing passion, it highlighted the obvious effects of rampant tooth decay and sun damage to her leathery, dirt-encrusted face. He stared, dumbfounded, while he studied her for a moment with new understanding. She might be forty but didn’t look a day over sixty. She was as rugged and weather-beaten as the mountain pines of the Cherith Pass he saw several tendays ago. It frightened him to think she might well be the epitome of feminine beauty in these parts.
“I could never dream of rejecting your gracious offer or sullying your good name, madam,” he said, bowing with another flourish. “My name is Rehaak, and I beg your pardon for assuming you were other than the...fair flower of femininity I now see revealed before me. Today’s bright sunlight must have blinded me to your loveliness, but how did one as comely as yourself become a drover of mithun? A drover is a man’s occupation, is it not?”
“I swear, lad, you’ve missed your callin’. You can shovel shit better’n any stable hand I ever seen without enterin’ a barn. I bin entertained enough for now. We best git movin’; otherwise, it’ll be dark afore we reach the mansio. Lessn we wants a romantic evenin’ snuggled up together under the stars.”
She paused and held out her calloused, web-fingered hand. Rehaak wondered at her intent. She appeared oblivious to his hesitation. He decided it was a simple greeting, so he reached out his own hand and grasped her leathery paw.
“People calls me Lucky, but my real name is Isilakari. My folks called me Isil most of the time though.” Lucky smiled her seductive smile again, and a sudden chill made him shiver despite the sun beating down on them. Rehaak appraised her again but reached the same conclusion. He had not shared a woman’s company for a long time, but not that long. The townsfolk might call her Lucky, but she couldn’t possibly get lucky often, and definitely would not get lucky with him. Rehaak drew comfort from the fact that he was not the only object of the townsfolks’ twisted senses of humor.
“Well, I shall call you Isil like your family did.” He watched while she nodded her acceptance. “Let’s be off then, shall we?” he said in a cheery tone, breaking free from the grip of her weathered hand. “I don’t relish another night outdoors — wolves and such.”
Rehaak turned and headed toward the edge of the forest at a pace Isil and the team could match. He thought the look in Isil’s eye might have been disappointment, but he decided it was better not knowing.
Frustration
Before Isil finished unhooking the mithun and removing her provisions from the wagon, the mansio and outbuildings cast long shadows across the clearing at the forest’s edge. A three-walled shed, roofed with wooden shingles, formed one wall of the mansio. A corral encircled a space large enough to contain the mithun.
Rehaak found heavy wooden buckets beside a covered well in the corral’s corner near a wooden trough. Once Isil unyoked the mithun and led them into the enclosure, Rehaak drew water from the well for them. The mithun crowded each other for a better position, eager to drink. Rehaak emptied buckets into the trough and cursed as he strained to keep ahead of their prodigious thirsts and avoid being trampled or crushed between the enormous animals. With their need for liquids satisfied, the mithun ambled over to the haystack in the opposite corner of the corral and filled their bellies.
Rehaak had lost sight of Isil, and deep shadows covered the glade long before he emptied the last bucket of water. The moon’s silver disk peeked through the trees, and the red glow on the western horizon dimmed. Insects trilled and chirped their mating calls in the waning light.
Rehaak was curious and a trifle nervous about the sleeping arrangements. Smoke rose from the chimney of the mansio. The scent of food drifted across the clearing, making Rehaak’s mouth water. His stomach growled and overwhelmed his other concerns as he trudged around the building toward the door.
Rehaak eased the door open and peered inside, where he found Isil stirring a large kettle hanging over the fire. She had washed and changed from her work clothes into a clean linen gown. Isil turned toward him when the door opened. Without the road grime clinging to her face, she looked younger, and beneath the feminine clothing, he detected womanly curves on her trim figure. Her skin had the dark verdigris tinge every Abrhaani developed in bright sunshine, but without the layer of dirt, her face appeared less leathery.
“Well, it smells like she can cook,” he muttered under his breath. His empty stomach and her obvious kitchen skills conspired against Rehaak, endearing her to him despite her gap-toothed smile and coarse appearance.
“Git yourself washed up and we’ll eat. There’s a basin on the stand and a towel for dryin’ over there.” Isil pointed at the items near the door.
The single room contained a table with a long bench, and to his definite relief, three beds lined one wall with tarps strung on ropes between them. Rehaak poured water into the basin and washed his face and hands.
Stew steamed in wooden bowls on the table before Rehaak emptied the wash-basin outside the door. Seated on the bench, Isil waited for him, but before he joined her, he stood beside the table and lifted his hands for his ritual blessing of the food. Rehaak had kept the custom of prayer, even though he had sworn off the service of his god. The song energized him and encouraged him to continue the practice. He sang his thanksgiving for the meal.
Creator of all, seas, stones, and sky,
our thanks we sing to you on high.
We take the gifts that you provide.
Your power graciously bestow,
on all your creatures here below.
Our thanks we give,
our strength and guide.
Rehaak took his seat. He began eating, but after the first few mouthfuls, he noticed Isil had not touched her food. Instead, she stared at him, eyes brimming with tears.
“What? Are you not hungry?” he said, looking at her in bewilderment, “Or is my singing horrendous?”
Isil wiped away a tear and swallowed hard as she struggled to speak. “I didn’t...” She paused, slack-jawed, collecting herself. “I didn’t think there was no others.”
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“What do you mean, others? What about the others?”
“I didn’t know there was other folks what believes in the Creator! There’s none left what keeps to the Ol’ Way and follows the true teachin’s. They follows this god or that god, and they has forgot the one god what made them all, the Creator, the Faithful One.”
“I never suspected you were a follower of the C-Creator,” he stammered.
They stared at each other without speaking.
“This is a twist,” he said, once he recovered. “How do you know about the Creator?”
“My parents and their parents before ‘em worshiped the Creator. They be dead and gone now, and I ain’t got no children to lead in the Ol’ Way. If’n I tries to tell others, they just calls me crazy ol’ Lucky.” She paused for a moment, then asked, “How’d you find out about the Faithful One? Your folks follow the Ol’ Way too?”
“No. My parents were like everyone else in Khel Braah. They offered sacrifices to Ashd’eravaak and the others. I learned about the Creator from studying ancient books and scrolls.”
“You read the Aetheriad, written by Naom’han, the Aethera scribe hisself?” she asked in amazement.
It was Rehaak’s turn to stand dumbfounded. This backwoods bumpkin had as much information as he did about the Creator. Isil knew things that took him thirty years to accumulate, which meant he had wasted all those years seeking the book in ancient ruins and dusty libraries, only to discover what was common knowledge to her and her family. Rehaak gritted his teeth and clenched his fists until the knuckles cracked. I have squandered years pursuing information that she learned as a child. It’s not fair.
