Eyes in the Water (20 page)

Arman nodded and left without another word.
He hastened from the small village and raced southeast through the
barren cold, eager to make Taro before afternoon.

~

The land around Taro was as bleak as that of
Veto. It was a barren landscape where harsh weather battered crops
and homes and lives. It was a wonder that any beings were able to
sustain themselves this far east. The village itself was a
diminutive community, boasting of no more than forty people, and
the few dilapidated houses present huddled beside a small rise to
help protect them from the bitter eastern gusts.

Arman twice caught a faint whistling sound,
apparently a signal warning the people of his approaching presence,
and proceeded cautiously. He was visible, and he knew that the
village could not help but be uneasy after the recent events.

The village was composed of only about
fifteen buildings. A few somber people lingered around the town
center, speaking in subdued voices and looking up speculatively to
the gray skies, but the area was largely deserted.

In the central courtyard, eleven bodies had
been arranged in a straight row. The drab daily wear of the corpses
had not been changed, but starkly white sheets rested under each
body. He had heard of this eastern custom. The body would be
carried in the sheet, and then the cloth would be wrapped around it
like a cocoon, as if to provide a safe haven for sleep and
repose.

A few villagers glanced curiously at him but
just as simply returned to their quiet stances and hushed
conversations. Arman hoped that the burial rites would provide
reason enough for his strange presence. Perhaps if he was presumed
to be an old friend, here to bid farewell to the dead, there would
be less chance of interference or trouble for him.

He approached the dead, slowing as the
details around him rushed upon his senses. The volume of white
linen before the dismal wooden homes was a shock to the eyes, the
hovering scent of burn was scoring to the nose. He swallowed and
sought to not miss anything.

The juile knelt, his robes meeting the cold
red earth. The motionless woman before him was past her prime but
still should have had many orbits left to live. Her skin had
darkened in patches, as though only parts of her had been roasted
from the inside out. Her features were fine—even with the odd
discoloration, he could see how lovely she had once been. The juile
gently touched her cool cheek.

He sighed, unsure what to think, and stroked
the woman’s long silver hair. Clumps of it came away from her head,
and he let the soft tresses fall from his palm.

“May death’s reigns only lead you to greater
heights, my lady,” Arman whispered softly.

He stood and glanced at each of the bodies in
turn, memorizing their features and garb. They appeared to be
typical fever victims, but every detail must be retained in his
mind to dissect later, when he had gained additional knowledge.

Arman raised his eyes next to the houses.
They were a handful of beaten wooden structures with small windows,
each as nondescript as the last. Fortunately, the three he sought
had sashes of mourning tied to the lintels. The dull black sashes,
as large as flags, extended from the tops of the entryways to the
hard, dark soil and waved about ominously in the wind.

He stepped cautiously forward and entered the
first house. The juile’s face tightened at the picture. The room
was well used but stamped with the threadbare quality of poverty.
In the corner, a paltry cooking fire had once known life. Two
blankets were stretched flat on the packed dirt floor, indicating
where the inhabitants had slept, and a basket with an onion and two
potatoes rested by the entryway.

He strode the meager space, examining and
noting everything. As he returned to the exit, he finally saw it. A
small bowl with a homemade orange pigment—now cracked and dried—sat
on the ground, resting behind the open door. He swung the door
closed and saw the letters that had been crudely painted on it.

VETO, it read.

Arman ran his finger slowly across the
letters, perturbed. He allowed one last glance around before
striding out into the cloudy afternoon to investigate the other two
houses. He found the same markings on the back of both doors. The
handwriting was unique, but the words and color were as one.

Arman’s lips pinched in severity.
Veto did
not do this.

He contemplated the possibilities and
disliked them all.

Outside, a crowd had begun to assemble. They
were the families of the village, rough and careworn, and although
still decked in what was likely their only clothing, each had a
silver scarf knotted at the arm, just below the shoulder: the
personal mourning sashes. The strips of cloth were clean and
pressed. They showed little sign of use—the fabric glistened like
satin, and the dye was fresh and unfaded. They provided a striking
contrast to the worn quality of everything else in the village.

Arman lingered at the edge of the gathering,
deliberating as to his next move. Finally, he stepped forward to
join the mourners, standing near the front. Several eyed him
carefully, but none felt drawn to converse. He hoped to at least
overhear their thoughts.

Several more villagers appeared, and the
group stomped their feet to keep warm. Puffs of cloud rose softly
from each mouth and still they waited, buffeted by the wind and
staring up at the forbidding sky. Finally, a middle-aged woman, her
face gaunt with grief, arrived. Her long brown hair was tied back
in a simple tail, and her eyes were gray and misty. She strode with
authority, despite her evident distress, and all watched her with
deference.

Arman surveyed her quietly, taking a moment
to let his mind align the facts, and exhaled softly as sense filled
him. It was evident that this woman was the chieftess Cona, and
more, Cona had the same oval face, the same even cheek bones, the
same straight-edged nose as one of the sheeted women taken by the
fever. The dark-haired woman had been a relative, perhaps a
sister.

Cona nodded somberly to a few and took her
place in silence beside the rest. With the addition of her
presence, an air of readiness rustled through the assembly. The
villagers directed their gazes to the still bodies and waited
silently, as if in a trance.

Arman had not planned to, but touched by the
grief of the people, he slipped out his fentatta and drew it to his
lips. The tiny instrument sang out with its clear voice, and every
eye swerved in surprise to ponder him. He did not flinch at their
staring but continued on, allowing his compassion to pour out—for
those living and dead. The notes pierced the cold air in a sweet
melody, and as the song swelled, the villagers directed their gazes
again to the deceased. Many wept quietly. The tender strain wrapped
them all, echoing the sorrow that reverberated in every heart.

In the blink of an eye, the moment was ripped
apart. A shrill whistle of warning rang down from the rise, and
every back stiffened. Arman pulled his pipe from his lips and
observed the crowd. Fear and anger mingled upon their hard faces.
The air swam with tense conversation.

“Why would they come here?” a woman
mumbled.

“Veto’s back to attack again,” cried another
voice.

“How many?”

Arman felt his limbs flood with a tight
energy but did not move. He needed to see what would transpire.

Glances curved naturally to Cona, and
eventually she stepped forward, holding out her hands. Despite the
rising angst in their eyes, the villagers hushed.

“This is nonsense,” she said hoarsely. “I
said it before, and I say it finally. Veto did not do this.” She
slowly met the eyes of each as she glanced amongst her people. “I
know what it looks like, but that could never be. Do not ruin our
chance to honor those we love.” The corners of the woman’s lips
turned down at this, and she looked old and weary. “For we have all
lost.”

Whispers softly floated amongst the
crowd.

“You’re sure?” a younger woman asked timidly.
“They are coming.”

“I don’t care if Veto comes or not. It does
not matter.” She swiped her hand down in a gesture of finality.
“They did nothing.”

Arman’s muscles loosened as he surveyed the
people. The anger that had stiffened each spine had dissipated.
Grief marked the figures once more. Backs leaned forward and heads
bent. The group returned to its silent vigil.

It was twenty minutes before Veto arrived.
They came as a whole, all thirty-eight of them, marching in silence
with grim faces. Each arm was also ringed with a pristine scarf,
these ones dyed a soft sky blue.

Farler was among them, neither in the lead
nor in tow, but as the group approached, he advanced to the front.
The new arrivals paused several steps behind the Taro villagers,
standing as a silent mass awaiting direction. Farler strode toward
the chieftess. At first his face was grim and collected, but at the
sight of her grief, his features gentled. He placed his hand
delicately upon her forearm.

“Cona,” he said, and then paused. He inhaled
slowly as his emotions began to build. “I am so sorry. For you. For
all of Taro.” The man closed his eyes, pressing his lips together
as he grappled for composure. It was a long, quiet moment. When he
opened them, he met her gaze beseechingly. “May I?”

Indecision clouded her face.

“She would not have me in life. But please
don’t deny me this now.” His face was humble and desperate.

Cona nodded, her tears now streaming
unchecked, and opened a palm towards the bodies upon the white
sheets.

“Thank you,” he said softly. He made as if to
step forward, but then checked his stride and placed the basket he
carried at Cona’s feet.

She looked confusedly at him, but Farler did
not respond save by placing the item clenched in his hand—a single
potato—in the center of the empty basket.

Farler advanced toward the bodies, his eyes
searching until they rested on a woman with dark brown hair, the
woman resembling Cona. His frame slumped, and he approached slowly,
finally kneeling at her side. His rough hands smoothed the tresses
at her temples, and he choked with grief as the hair fell from her
head like ash. He bent forward and kissed her cheek, whispering
words only for her.

The villagers of Veto then followed in a
line, placing their gifts of food in the basket at Cona’s feet and
stepping to stand among the people of Taro until the group was an
indecipherable mix. Cona hardly noticed their movements, for her
eyes were fixed upon Farler and the woman. Glistening tears
streaked her face.

Arman resumed the working of his fentatta,
and the song held everyone in its sorrowful magic. The pain was
palpable, but the unity and truth of the moment made even the
bitterness bearable. Arman himself experienced the power of it, and
gratitude spilled through him. These villages would know peace;
both leaders carried wisdom in the face of disaster and agony. He
played for several minutes before tapering the sad tune to a close.
A sigh parted many lips when the pipe was finally tucked away.

Farler again kissed the dead woman’s cheek
and, with a swift maneuver of the wrist, freed his arm from his sky
blue sash. The fabric flapped about in the wind as he secured it
instead upon the woman’s arm.

As Farler stood and turned, his gaze fell
upon Arman. Grief had sharpened the lines and edges of the chief’s
face, and he met the juile’s gaze with weary resignation. And then,
as simply as he came, he left. He nodded once to Cona and set his
feet back toward Veto. The other villagers remained as they were,
although some turned their heads to watch their chief depart.

Cona pressed her lips together in
contemplation as she watched the man leave. She glanced down at the
basket and wiped her face clean with open palms. Her features
turned decisive in a breath.

“Farler!” Cona called. Her voice was still
hoarse with emotion.

He paused and glanced back, his face
long.

She strode to him, and while Arman could not
hear, he observed the two in hushed conversation. Cona extended her
arm, and the two touched hands briefly. Farler’s face softened, and
he nodded. Farler again pointed his steps toward home. Cona
returned to the gathering, grief raw upon her face.

She trod heavily to the front of the crowd,
standing close to the brunette’s body, and faced the people. She
made no move to speak for a time, and the only sound that filled
the space was the howling of the wind and the flapping of the
scarves as they danced about like flags from the villagers’
arms.

“Thank you,” she began. Her voice was weary,
as though each word taxed her sorely. “Thank you for coming, Veto.
I know, we all know, that your town is innocent.” She swallowed.
“This was a tragedy for us all. Thank you for honoring our dead.
Thank you.”

Cona stooped and kissed the cheek of her dead
relative, resting her hand softly upon Farler’s sash for a quiet
moment. She collected a section of sheet with tight fists and, at
this signal, all stepped forward to grip the white edges and raise
the bodies. Arman joined, assisting a small party hefting up a
young man, and the various groups bore their loads to the south of
the village.

The walk was slow and strenuous. Despite the
numerous hands, the corpses were bulky and the sheets difficult to
manage. Eventually, they all arrived at a fence-encircled field.
They entered the gate, one group and sheet at a time, and ushered
past stones and markers until they arrived at the upturned dark
soil of the freshly dug graves.

Arman, with his group of six others, ringed
the grave and slowly lowered the young man to its base. An older
man, assumedly his father, gingerly climbed down beside the corpse
to wrap him carefully in the extra folds of the sheet. The youth’s
blackened face disappeared in the sea of white.