A Thread of Time: Firesetter, Book 1 (2 page)

Chapter 2

Jan

I wasn’t meant to venture anywhere beyond
my little village, and neither did I wish too.  Unlike my older brother, who
dreamed of adventures on faraway planets, I was content to keep my feet firmly
planted on the sunlit planet.  I loved the sea, though, the calm rolling of the
ocean waves, and the wind, which I imagined lovingly whispered my name.

My name was Jan, an ordinary, plain,
single syllabic handle which should have been simple enough for anyone to
pronounce.  Like my name, my appearance varied from predominately dull to
boring, depending who was judging it at that particular moment.

“Isn’t Jan sweet,” my mother would say,
preferring to overlook my unremarkable appearance with blinded, maternal
devotion.

At the same moment, my brother, Taul might
proclaim my face homelier than his pet frog, a mummified creature which had
grown only uglier since it had died several years prior. 

I had never understood the comparison to
the frog, as my hair was not green, but a nearly white blonde, bearing only a
hint more color than the snow white cloud of my advanced years.  My eyes were
also pale, a clear, almost-colorless gray, providing no enhancement to my fair
skin, while my body was equally as plain.  As a young woman, I had the figure
of a tall boy, with only tiny budding breasts, flat hips, and a waist, though
slim, clearly without curves. 

“Makeup,” my mother insisted.  “Cosmetics
will do wonders for Jan.  When she’s old enough, twelve or thirteen, we ought
cover her in mascara and dye her hair red.”

Unfortunately, for my mother, I had no
interest in enhancing my plainness, preferring instead the loneliness of my
little boat, in which I would meander down the river, never quite reaching the
sea, chasing the fish as they sought to run from my net.

When I was fourteen, my appearance no more
improved than in my preteens, I acquired a friend, a boy much smaller than
myself.  One day, I discovered him sitting upon the dock, gazing curiously at
my little boat.  His small feet were hanging just above the water, bare of any
shoes, his toenails cracked and dirty.

“Hey, get away from there,” I called,
immediately assuming the worst, for orphaned and homeless street urchins were
prevalent during those times.

“Is it yours?” the boy asked, turning
bright blue eyes upon me, his gaze so intense it momentarily threw me off
guard.

“Yes,” I snapped, upon recovering my
senses.  “Now, get away from it, you little thief.”

“I’m not a thief.  I was only looking at
it.  I wish I had a boat like this.  I think I would love to sail.”

“That’s ridiculous.”  The child looked no
more than eight years old and without a penny to his name, let alone a boat. 
“Go away.”

I shoved him aside, although I didn’t want
to touch the child’s filthy torn t-shirt or the sunburnt skin of the shoulders
peeking through.

He shrugged, those red arms drifting up
and down, his intense gaze and colorful eyes refusing to leave me in peace.

“How come you have a boat like this?” he
asked, the innocent words drifting from lips my Aunt Ailana would have said
were both as plump and red as a cherry, as becoming on this child as a woman
fully grown.

“It was my father’s,” I replied, doing my
best to ignore the little pest, and instead set about preparing my fishing
nets, and the single sail which would take me from the shore.

Clipping the sail to the halyard, I laid
the sheets where I could reach them with one hand.  Since neither my mother nor
Taul took to the sea, I had become quite proficient at guiding the tiller with
one hand, while controlling the sail with the other.

“Would you like some help?” the boy asked,
already rising to his feet, assuming his presence was desired.  “I’d like to
come, and I can help you sail, or row with your oars.”

“No!  Absolutely not.  Go away.”

Untying the bow line, I made haste to
hurry away from this annoying child.  The prow of my little craft swung
outward. 

“I can be useful,” the boy insisted. 
“Please let me come with you.”

I didn’t deign to answer as I released my
stern line and drifted off.  I let the wind and current direct me onward, to
the river and the hint of salt-filled air, the brief few hours of solitude, and
the peace, as well as the dinner it would bring to me.

Unfortunately, my pleasure was all too
brief.  Though the sky had been clear at the outset of my adventure, only
moments later, dark clouds swarmed overhead, accompanied by what would become
torrents of rain.  Quickly, I turned the boat homeward, now fighting the wind
back to my dock, and the boy who sat waiting expectantly, his face inexplicably
lighting with joy as I once again sailed into his midst. 

“What are you going to do now?” he asked,
rushing for my bow line and expertly tying it before I could think to refuse
his aid.

“Go home, I suppose.”  I climbed on the foredeck
and reversed all I had done less than an hour earlier, stowing my sail, and
locking the single hatch.

“Oh.”  He gazed at me, the raindrops
already dampening his hair, a golden mass of dirty wild curls that only made my
tresses pale further in comparison. 

“I suppose you want to come home with me,”
I pronounced, already half way off the dock.  “I suppose you think my mother
will feed you and give you a bed.”

“I didn’t…” he began, his small feet
trailing after mine, two of his steps equaling every one I placed.

“Do you know how many orphaned waifs come
to our house everyday?” I demanded, not slowing pace, nor daring to look back,
and not wanting or expecting an answer to my question.  That would only
encourage him.  If he saw a hint of pity in my eyes, he would think he had won,
when in truth, my mother’s reaction to his presence would only result in a
tongue lashing for me.  “Go away.  You can’t come with me.  My mother will set
the dog on you if you dare approach our door.”

The boy continued to follow me, either
pretending he hadn’t heard, or didn’t believe me, in which case, he would have
been correct.  We had no dog.  However, my mother always threatened it, even if
she had to fake a vicious growling or barking sound herself.  Sometimes, I
faked the barking, although my rendition sounded more like a cow.  Still, it
managed to rid our porch of wayward orphans and other people of the street. 

“Like ants they are,” my mother said. 
“Give one a crumb and in minutes, the entire colony will appear.”

“What’s your name?” the child asked, still
following me, pestering me.  “Mine is Dov.  I can spell it, D-O-V.”

I don’t know why, but I stopped short
right then, causing the boy to bump into my back.

“Dov?” I gasped.  “How does a street
urchin know how to spell?”

“I don’t know,” the boy shrugged.  “I just
do.”  Again, those red shoulders shifted up and down.  He blinked rapidly, his
lips forcing a tiny smile again.  “Tell me your name so we can be friends.”

“I don’t want to be your friend.” 
Immediately, I was filled with remorse for speaking so harshly to this poor
lonely child. 

The rain was coming hard then and I was
growing wet and cold.  I longed to return home, to the warm fire in our hearth
and hopefully, the remains of a hot cabbage soup, the last from my mother’s
kitchen garden.  

“I mean,” I continued, doing my best to
explain in a way the young child would understand.  “I am much older than you. 
It wouldn’t be right.  Now, for the last time, go on.  Go away.  I don’t want
you following me, and I can’t give you anything or help you, in any case. 
Goodbye Dov.”  I waggled a finger at the road, before putting my fists on my
hips and tapping my foot with impatience.

“But, I don’t want your help,” the boy
insisted, refusing to acknowledge my dismissal, while the rain showered us from
above.  His wild curls became twisted ropes, and his thin, torn clothing clung
to his tiny body.

“Then, what do you want from me?”

I never heard his answer.  Lightning
crackled and flashed directly over our heads, sending us scurrying into the
doorway of the nearby abandoned building.  We were lucky we had done so, for
only a moment later, the ground rumbled with a sound akin to thunder as heavy
trucks rolled down the road.

“It’s them,” I gasped, instinctively
reaching for Dov’s arm.  Whether I did this to shelter him or protect myself, I
wasn’t certain.  In any case, I pulled him down, the two of us squeezing into
the furthest, darkest corner, cowering against the cracked glass door, hiding
our faces and our hair beneath our arms.  “Don’t let them see us.” 

Dov didn’t move.  As far as I could tell,
he never even breathed.  For what seemed like the longest minute in my life,
the two of us didn’t exist. 

Somewhere, further down the road, in the
direction of the village market, I thought I heard screaming although it could
have been the wind and rain.  Somewhere, further down the road, I thought I
heard the sound of gunshots, although it could have been the lightning, or the
crackling of the fire as another abandoned building burst into flame.

Chapter 3

Ailana

On Saturdays, when I was a young woman, I
helped my grandmother at her shop.  She was a seamstress who spent her days
tucking in or taking out, sewing buttons or hems, and occasionally, creating
something all new from scratch.  Sometimes, that something would be for me,
even though most often, I didn't want it.

I didn’t like my grandmother’s creations
then, and I didn’t like having to sit next to her and sew stitches myself.  I
hadn’t the patience to do such work and despite my best efforts, I generated
only poor, pale copies of her handiwork. 

Furthermore, Saturday was the best day of
the week when all the other young people of our village would be resting or
enjoying themselves instead of toiling.  Yet, there I was, trapped in a dark
and musty shop, next to an old, foul-mouthed woman who spent the entire time
chiding my lackluster efforts.

“Not like that, Ailana,” she’d snap, and
in a swift swipe of a seam ripper, tear out everything I had just done. 
“You’ll never get a job as a seamstress with such sloppy stitches.”

“I don’t want a job as a seamstress,” I
would retort, raising my chin, and thinking myself ever so clever. 

“Too fine for such work, are you?  Then,
you shan’t have this new dress.  You are undeserving.”  She would hold up the
golden gown with the handmade lace collar she had been tatting.  “I shall have
to give this to your cousin, Embo although she looks exactly like her mother,
far too thin to fit it well, and with nothing to fill it up.”

“Fine.  Give it to her.”

“Fine.  I shall.” 

With the issue of the dress decided, I
rethreaded my needle and attempted to hem the customer’s skirt once again.  It
was a black sateen fabric that showed every misplaced needle-prick, too
difficult a task for a novice such as me.  Surely, my cousin Embo would have
done a far better job.  She always did, and Grandmother made certain I knew
that.

“Your cousin will look like a shiny stick
in this.”  Grandmother sniffed and sigh dramatically.  “No amount of lace will
make her appealing to a man.  She’s as plain and ordinary as a blank page, and
this gold color will be dreadful with her pale skin, although I must say, she
would do a much better job on that skirt than you.”

“And, where is she today?  Why isn't my
cousin here suffering with me?”

“She is out looking for a man, no doubt,
and having little luck in finding him.”

Grandmother would snicker then, and I
would do my best not to follow suit.  I liked Embo well enough, although I
tended to agree with Grandmother's assessment.

“You, on the other hand,” Grandmother
continued, “Would look lovely in this color, for your hair and complexion is
the same as this gold thread.  Your face and especially, your smile would light
it as if it was touched by a single ray from the sun.  But, you are a spoiled
rotten child, and undeserving of such a treasure.  You also do not need it, for
you can catch a man with just your face.  Make your back stitch tighter,
Ailana, or the hem will quickly pull out.  Place it closer to the fabric's edge,
else your stitches will show upon the skirt's face.”

“Yes, Grandmother.”  I would sigh
dramatically, too, and while tightening my back stitch, I’d avoid glancing in
the direction of the golden dress. 

I didn’t want it anyway.  It wasn’t as if
I was about to be invited to a palace ball.  In this poor village full of those
just like ourselves, it would look completely out of place. 

“I once made this same dress for the
little princess, Prince Mikal’s daughter, although that one had pearl buttons
all the way down the bodice here, instead of these plain gilt.  Ach, the pearls
were so much nicer.  Did you know the Empress Sara had the exact same gown, and
insisted her granddaughter’s would match it in every detail?” 

I did know about that dress, for I had heard
this story many times before.  During the old Empress's reign, Grandmother's
shop was designated as an
Official Dressmaker
and a Royal Seal was
placed upon the door.  It was the only one so honored in our village, a tiny
corner of the port city of Farku on the west coast of the continent that was
called Mishnah.  This was long ago, several decades past, although it felt like
centuries to me. 

I was born just before the Empress died,
right before the beginning of King Mikal’s reign and the outbreak of the
Disease, which killed my parents and many others including the young princess
and the Queen.

“How would you like to be dressed as a
copy of me?” Grandmother asked, again holding up the dress for me to
appreciate.

“I would hate it,” I replied without hesitation.

“As would I,” Grandmother agreed.  “I am
far more beautiful than you.  I would feel great sorrow eclipsing your
attention by my fair grace.”

Invariably, that comment, which happened
one or more times every Saturday, would cause me to erupt into laughter, while
Grandmother did her best not to display her own mirth.  Though Grandmother was
probably only in her sixties, she was old to a girl my age, her skin wrinkled,
her hair coarse and white, her hands freckled with spots. 

I realized later, she was still quite
beautiful for both her own age and any other, but to the child that was me, she
simply could not compare to my youthful splendor.

“The Empress, the elder Sara, was more
beautiful than the younger too.  The little girl took after her grandfather,
the Duke, and while a fine gentleman, and a genuinely kind man, His Royal
Highness’s looks were considerably lacking.”

Grandmother’s eyes grew misty as they did
every time she thought of her youth. 

“It was a different world then.  So much
hope, so much to look forward to.  Ach, not at all like it is now.” 

Despite her distant thoughts, her fingers
never once stopped their ministrations, nor ever lost a stitch, for she could
sew with the same perfection with eyes closed.

“And, how did the little princess like the
dress?” I asked.  “Was it a success?”  Having finished my tasked of hemming a
skirt, I rose to take it to the iron. 

“Let me see what you have done,”
Grandmother called sternly, not responding to my question.  “Fine.  Not your
best work, but good enough for this lady.  You’ll be able to earn a coin or two
from your skills if you keep it up.  If you concentrate better, Ailana, you
might even earn three or four.  A good seamstress is always in demand by the
nobility and rich.”

“What nobility and rich?” I scoffed. 
“They are as poor as we are now.”

“Anyone who has three coins to pay me is
rich in my book,” Grandmother snorted. 

Turning on the steam, I carefully pressed
out the skirt by placing it between two layers of special pressing cloth.  As I
stood there performing this laborious and boring task, I dreamed of future days
in the university, surrounding myself with art and music, while discussing
theories and philosophies with learned professors and brilliant students.  We
would sip dark espresso and think great thoughts, while planning how we would
save our world and bring equality to all the races.  

“That’s all well and good, Ailana,”
Grandmother would say.  “But, if you are not admitted into your fancy
university, you best have a fallback plan to feed yourself.”

I had no retort for this.  I would be
admitted of course.  I was saving my money.  I could earn a scholarship if I
had to.

“It's not the money,” Grandmother would
cackle.  “It never was.  It's who you are and where your people are from.  Heed
my advice for I have seen it happen more times than I care to recall.  It’s the
way of things.  The pendulum swings both back and forth.  Trust me.  It is
about to swing again.”

“It’s a new century,” I replied.  “We
won’t make the mistakes of your generation.”

“It was a new century then, too, and we
said the same.”

“King Mikal has everything under control.”

“He is a sad man, scarred by the Disease,
and his own woes.  The loss of his beloved wife and his little princess makes
him long for the eternal rest.  I fear our next king shall be his distant
cousin, Duke Marko Korelesk and that does not bode well for our people, those
who came from the motherland of Karupatani.  Weak men always look for another
to blame, and the Duke is both weak and dislikes our kind.”

“I am not afraid,” I replied smugly,
placing the skirt upon a hanger, and covering it with a sheet of thin plastic
wrap.  “There is a movement afoot to elect a president instead of a king.  We
shall select someone smarter, someone caring who can represent us all.  After
Mikal, we shall be finished with the reign of kings and queens.”

Grandmother hated it when I argued for
democracy.  Like her ire, the color rose in her face. 

“People are stupid,” she snapped,
impatiently.  “Too stupid to elect anyone who won’t proclaim himself exactly
that.  Go on with you now, Miss University Girl.  Go study your philosophy, but
take a look at history too.  When you are hungry, recall how to earn a coin by
placing a stitch.  It will feed you more than any art or music theories can
provide.”

“That will never happen,” I retorted,
already half way out her door.

“Of course it will.  You just wait and
see, for again it shall be us that are called to blame.  Again, it shall be us
who will become unwelcome in our homes.  For this time, our motherland awaits. 
The Great Emperor granted it to us for all perpetuity.  He knew two hundred
years ago that this time would come to pass again.”

I must have responded smartly.  I always
did.  At the very least, I would have let the door slam shut behind me, as I
hurried out, making an attempt to salvage the afternoon.  I wouldn’t let
Grandmother's predictions bother me, for I heard the same every Saturday, and
ignored them every time. 

The motherland, the old ways held no attraction
when the future beckoned.  Frankly, only my grandmother belonged there, where
they still practiced the Old Religion and kept the laws in those silly ancient
books.  To do this day, nearly two centuries since the Great Emperor had ended
the wars and combined the races, only she still insisted we were of one and not
the other.

But, I was the ignorant one, for time
happened exactly as my grandmother foresaw.  After King Mikal’s death a dozen
years into the future, while I was still a young mother, Grandmother’s
prophetic words unfortunately came true.