Into This Wild Abyss, page 22
part #1 of Vermilion Archives Series
Others came and it was late afternoon before all the requests were met. As Dovo prepared the evening meal, a farmer stood under a nearby tree watching them. Water dripped on him, but he appeared unconcerned. He just watched.
“What do you think he’s doing?” Ashara whispered. Dovo and Po managed not to look, but Anjan glanced over at the man.
“I don’t know,” Po said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Probably first time he’s seen Ba’re monks,” Anjan said.
“Travelling with a Kh’areen woman,” Dovo added. “This isn’t the main road to anywhere and these people don’t see outsiders that often. They are probably equally suspicious and fascinated by us.”
“I don’t like it,” Ashara muttered. “It’s not right. What if he’s a thief or a bandit? He’s watching us for something.”
“No one robs Ba’re monks,” Po said. “It isn’t done. That’s why we are forbidden to travel with money.”
“I have money,” Ashara hissed, then glanced about self-consciously.
“He doesn’t know that.”
“How do you know?”
“Well,” he said. “Did he look inside your bag?”
“No. But he could guess.”
“Guessing and knowing are —” Po began before Dovo cut him off.
“Dinner’s ready,” the cook said. “Now eat up before it gets cold.”
The next day Ashara was extra cautious, but nothing came of it. They wound their way up the valley, down into another and out onto an open plain. As night fell, they saw lights in the distance and Ashara looked forward to a warm fire and food in her belly.
“Won’t be long now,” Dovo said. “I can almost taste the kaja. Who wants me to use tonight that cheese we’ve been saving?”
“And the peppered sausage,” Anjan said. “What about the saka beans?”
“They need soaking. We can do them tomorrow if we find water.”
“Sausage, cheese and warm bread,” Po said. “I hope they have bread to spare.” The mention of food made Ashara’s stomach rumble.
“I can buy some flour next time we have the chance,” she suggested. “Then we don’t have to rely on charity at every stop.”
“A noble gesture,” Dovo said. “But it’s heavy. It’ll just weigh us down. So far the locals have been generous, and we’ve repaid their kindness ten fold.”
The smell of log fires drifted towards them on the breeze and Ashara knew they were getting close. Soon she could see the dark forms of cottages and a lone tree by what looked like the village well.
“Do you see a shrine?” she asked. Her companions each replied in the negative, though it was too dark for them to be certain.
“Stars are out,” Dovo said. “Doesn't look like it'll rain. Let's sleep by the well.” No one could come up with a better idea so they found a dry patch and dropped their stuff.
A dog barked from one of the houses and then another and another. Voices carried in the night across a vegetable garden. Anjan was just getting a little fire going when doors opened and three torches appeared.
“Please be warm bread,” Anjan said. “Please be warm bread.”
“They don't sound friendly,” Ashara said. She checked her knife and sling and kept them ready beneath her cloak. She stood and placed herself slightly to the back of Dovo, giving her room to maneuver if they were in danger.
“They'll be fine,” Anjan said. “Come sit down.”
“Let's see what they have to say first,” Po said, clearly following Ashara’s lead. Anjan relented and stood up as the three figures became clear in their firelight. Four big dogs strained on their leads and a barrel-chested man held them back with a clenched fist. He wore a blacksmith’s apron and had a thick black beard with flecks of gray. His companions were rough village types with matted hair and lean bodies.
One of the dogs growled and that set the others barking until the blacksmith yanked on their leads and shouted a command.
“Good evening,” Dovo said as soon as the dogs were quiet. “We're Ba're monks on the road from Pao’an. Is anyone in your village in need of assistance?” The big man narrowed his eyes and glanced back at his two fellows.
“We don't know you,” he said. “No one trusts strangers around here. We'd be a lot happier if you moved on.”
“Moved on?” Po said. “Now?”
“Now,” the blacksmith said. “No offense to you personally. Strange word about. We're just not taking chances.” Anjan took a step forward to say something and a dog growled and snapped at him. The leash pulled tight feet from his face. Anjan yelped and hurried to the back of their group.
“We have come a long way,” Dovo said. “I'm sure you won't deny travelling monks a place to sleep.”
“I said what I have to say. Move on. Pick your stuff up and we'll escort you out.”
They were left no choice but to agree and packed their things again. Ashara made a concerted effort to stay out of their torchlight and never let her hand stray far from her blade. She was convinced, though she did not know how, that these men were connected with the watcher the night before.
“How peculiar,” Dovo said once they were escorted beyond the fields on the other side of the village and the men returned to their homes. “I’ve never been treated like that before. They looked angry.”
“Maybe they don't like Ba're,” Po suggested.
“Rubbish,” Dovo replied. “It hardly matters to the common folk outside the cities.”
“You should try being Kh’areen,” Ashara said. “No one wants us in their villages.”
“So they were angry at you?” Anjan asked.
“No,” said Ashara. “They couldn't tell. And I don't think they were angry. I think they were trying to be confident. But you could tell they were scared.”
“You mean frightened?”
“Yes.”
“Of us?” asked Po. “Why scared of us?”
“Maybe not of us,” she said. “But scared of something.”
They set up camp on a barren stretch of road. Ashara cast about for signs of water but found none in the dark. She sat and watched Dovo get a fire going, but it was pitiful and made a lot of smoke with little flame.
“Looks like it is sausage and cheese tonight,” Dovo said. “This won’t heat anything.”
“No kaja?” Anjan asked.
“Nope,” Dovo said.
“Better save the water,” Ashara said. “I don’t think we’ll get more until tomorrow.”
After their simple meal the monks went to sleep, wrapped in their robes, using their bags as pillows. Ashara stayed awake worrying about the day. Before drifting off, she laid her sling beside her with a stone in it.
“Alright, wake up,” a voice barked.
Ashara sat bolt upright. The three men from the night before stood ten feet away, their dogs sniffing the remains of dinner. Ashara was up in an instant, slinge ready. Po, Anjan, and Dovo yawned and looked about in groggy surprise.
“On your feet,” the blacksmith ordered. “And put the weapon down.” One of the men now carried a hunting bow. He drew back an arrow and aimed it at Ashara. She looked down at her sling and up at the man.
“Stop,” Po said, stumbling between Ashara and the archer. “What are you doing?”
“Out of the way,” Ashara hissed.
“Put the bow down,” Po insisted, ignoring her. Ashara returned the sling stone to its pouch. Her hand brushed the handle of her knife, but it was pointless at ten feet against an archer.
“What’s the meaning of this,” Dovo demanded, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“You’re coming with us,” the blacksmith said. “You three and the witch.”
“Witch?” Ashara spat. “You think I’m a —”
“Keep those lips shut,” the archer said in a voice born of terror. Ashara spotted the other man make a sign with his hands. She had seen that motion before when villagers warded off evil. She rolled her eyes.
“Right, grab your things,” the blacksmith ordered. “You’re going to walk in front of us nice and slowly like. No fast moves. Nothing stupid, okay? If I think you’re going to play games, I let go of the dogs. Got it?”
“Where — where are we going?” Po asked.
“To meet someone. That’s all you need to know. Now move it.”
CHAPTER 16
Ido echoed with singing and the crashing of cymbals. Natan watched as excited children threw branches of the daka bush onto a large fire. The dried seed pods exploded with cracks and bangs. Ju’gen played his reed flute accompanied by a neighbour on the lute, and villagers danced merrily in the open space between the fire and the musicians. The whole valley had turned out for the marriage of two of their young ones.
“Don't they dance in Pao’an?” a woman asked, offering Natan her hand. She was about ten years older than Natan and large for a local. Not fleshy as some in Pao’an became, but big boned from a good diet and hard work.
“Sorry,” Natan said, indicating his crutch. It was three weeks since his arrival in Ido and while his recovery was miraculous, he wanted to be careful.
“That's no good is it,” the woman said, and asked if he wanted a drink instead. Not wanting to say no twice, Natan accepted the offer. She returned shortly with two tankards of locally made fermented potato liquor mixed with crushed fruit.
“There you are,” Pa’tavi said, appearing around the corner of a cottage. Natan was caught with the tankard to his lips. She took it off him and chugged it back, finishing the tankard in one go.
“Don't look at me like that,” she said, clicking her tongue here and there at random points. “You need to look after yourself. No drinking today. And you Nasali, you know better than to get our guest drunk.”
“One drink won't hurt,” said the woman. “All a bit if fun, eh? He looks like he could do with some.” Nasali winked at Natan as she sauntered off to rejoin the party.
“Keep an eye on that one,” Pa’tavi said. “Her husband died in an accident last year. She’s trouble.”
“Don't worry about me,” Natan said raising his hands in mock surrender. Pa’tavi pointed towards the groom’s home.
“They'll announce lunch soon. Come on, we'll go together.”
Natan took Pa’tavi’s arm and they walked over to the house. It was early for lunch, but already some guests gathered in the yard smoking, spinning yarn and catching up on the local gossip.
Large trestle tables were laid out around the yard, weighed down with fresh vegetables cooked with butter, garlic and plenty of cracked pepper. Natan cast his eyes over steaming piles of butternut squash, pumpkin, carrot, cabbage, leek, potato and parsnip and his stomach growled. The groom’s father roasted a sheep over an open fire. The mother fussed with dinner plates.
“Just be polite and stay off the drink,” Pa’tavi repeated for the dozenth time.
Dinner was called and guests packed around the tables. Natan looked about at the generations present and was quite suddenly irked at their cheerfulness. Don't they know there's a war on? Pa’tavi passed Natan a platter of potatoes and nudged him.
“I know what dark thoughts haunt you,” she said, tapping her nose. “But be cheerful for their sake.” Pa’tavi nodded towards the bride and groom at the head of another table. The groom wore fresh blue linens, and the bride was adorned in white with a crown of flowers upon her head. They laughed with their friends. Nimi, Natan thought. She would have been the same age as the bride.
One of the guests called a toast, then another and another. Pa'tavi made sure Natan's tankard was always filled with plain blackberry juice without the added alcohol.
“So you’re a soldier eh?” a man from up the valley asked. “I heard about you.”
“Good things I hope,” Natan said awkwardly.
“Oh good enough. You were with that — what was his name dear?” the man asked leaning over to his wife.
“Jona,” the wife said.
“Jano,” Natan corrected. “General Jano. I was just an auxiliary.”
“Still, a soldier’s a soldier,” the man said. “I fought once. Years ago now.” He held up a hand and showed off the stumps of two missing fingers.
“Battle of Totna Field,” he said. “Lucky they didn’t cut my arm off.”
“Come on dear,” the wife said, pulling her husband’s hand under the table. “This is a wedding — no time to talk about missing fingers.”
“Righty-o,” he said. “So what did you do before the war?” Natan explained how his family owned a trading house and they talked for a while about the day to day activities of doing business in the city. It was a difficult subject, and the more Natan talked, the more he realized he did not miss it. He missed the idea of home, but not home itself. It made him sick to think he would have to go back there.
“Your parents must be worried,” the man said, suffering the reproving glare of his wife for hinting at the war again.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Natan said. “My mother will. Maybe. Avi, my father, well, he probably hasn’t noticed I’m gone.” Pa’tavi put her hand on his shoulder and suggested Natan try the lamb.
“Absolutely delicious,” she said. “Such a treat.” The man took the hint and turned to another guest.
“They don't see many newcomers,” Pa’tavi whispered. “You don't have to answer every question, Son of Sato.”
“I know,” Natan said, his face downcast.
A shout went up from the head table. An uncle of the bride announced it was time for the bedding ceremony. Natan twisted in his seat to watch. Male guests went for the groom. Female guests went for the bride. As was customary, the pair of newlyweds resisted and tried to get away, but they were grabbed and hoisted on guests’ shoulders. The parents led the way to the couple's new home next door while Jen’gu and the musicians followed behind.
Natan got up and with Pa’tavi followed the shrieks of merriment. The house was too small for everyone to fit inside and guests spilled from the cottage and through the yard. Natan could hardly see a thing from the back, but he was familiar with what happened. He shuddered at the thought of one day bedding his own wife with nothing but a curtain between them and their parents. It was enough for any sane person to remain a bachelor.
Cheers indicated the deed was done. Nasali caught Natan’s eye and she winked at him.
Partying continued into the evening. As darkness fell over Ido, villagers threw logs onto the fire and took up a lively dance with clapping and singing. Someone found a drum kit, and the lute player from before joined in.
Natan clapped with the beat but sat off to the side. The fire held his attention with some primordial fascination. It was easy to slip off into a melancholic dream state, seeing images in the flames. He failed to notice Nasali until her hand rubbed his thigh. She leaned in, her breath playing hot across his neck.
“You're a quiet one,” she said. “I like that.”
“I don’t feel well,” Natan said. Nasali scowled. “Nothing personal,” he added. “I think I’ll go for a walk... alone. Need some fresh air and a clear head.” Natan headed into the night away from the partying, wandering aimlessly along village paths, through orchards and fields. He came to a boundary marker and sat resting his hands and chin on his crutch. A cool wind rippled through his hair and he sensed the distinct first bite of autumn in the air. His thoughts turned to home. Out there, somewhere, Pao’an slept under the same sky. He stared upwards, wondering what his parents were doing. Did they know Dasha was dead? Has Dan returned? Do they miss me? Wait, do they know I’m alive? That sent a chill down his spine. They’ll think I’m dead. He glanced down at the valley. From his position on the hill he had a good view of the wedding party. The bonfire burnt hot and angry, lighting the village square. Dark figures moved about it, but these were not farmers celebrating, these were armed men. Natan recognized some shapes, Pa’tavi included, backing into the shelter of a courtyard. He frowned. That’s not right.
A scream drifted up to his ears. Natan swore to himself and tested his weight on his leg.
⁂
Dawn broke over the plains. A chill wind came from the south blowing drizzle in its wake. Po looked for a sign of their destination. Any number of villages could be folded into the landscape, but none were visible. The road wound on out of sight between hill and dale. At times were ruins of some old homestead, or what remained of a chimney, then only bricks one atop another.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“You’ll see,” the man said. “Now keep quiet.”
Po bowed his head against the wind. Ashara walked out in front with Dovo and Anjan behind. Po took up the rear, only feet between him and the dogs behind. He glanced over his shoulder. The blacksmith grunted and a dog snapped. Po quickened his pace.
The road rounded a knoll and descended steeply. The plains fell away and a great crack rent the land, broadening into a valley of rusty autumn trees. Po could not help himself.
“We’re going down there?” he asked. No one replied. A wooden bridge crossed a stream and beyond that were two pillars, one on either side of the road, worn smooth with the ravages of time, though some shallow scars indicated where once characters had been chiseled into the surface. The road forked after this, one rising back onto the plain, and the other cutting deep into the forest with trees forming a roof above them.
“To the left,” the blacksmith barked, indicating the forest path. After a few minutes Ashara stopped and Dovo bumped into her.
“We’re being watched,” she said.
“Yes,” the blacksmith said, his voice less certain than before. “Keep going.” Po hesitated. Leaves rustled and boughs creaked and groaned. Twigs snapped and all seven of them turned to the source. A figure shrouded in robes of black and gray observed them. His face was in shadow and his feet were bare against the forest floor. He raised a hand and extended a finger towards Po and his companions.
