The Land's Whisper (31 page)

“No.”

“Please,” Gartoung replied.

Darse slowly nodded, and surprisingly did
not fight. The golden eyes glanced up, defeated and shamed. He
dragged his gaze to the floor, and with a voice hardly audible,
whispered into the neck of his shirt, “It was like he raped my
mind.”

Unleashing his tongue was like the
shattering a long held dam; the depth of his violation expressed,
all he had been holding back now flooded out in violent haste.
Darse curled his back and pulled his knees to his burly chest,
weeping as no person ever should. He rocked back and forth in a
crazed roll, heaving without control. He wept and wept, until, worn
out, he collapsed supine, his whole body quivering.

Brenol became vaguely aware of the metallic
taste of blood in his mouth and slowly unclamped his teeth from his
tongue. His face trembled under the blazing fury that possessed
him, and a rigid hate calcified in his heart and drove him into
thoughts he never dreamed he would have.

Fingers will die if I have any life left
in me
, he vowed.
He will die.

~

It was late afternoon the next day when
Gartoung ushered the two to the river, Cela. The tall figure swept
through the trees with a grace and ease that Brenol forever found
compelling, and he led them the short distance to the water’s edge.
He quietly peered out on the coruscating rush, which jumped happily
upon rock and around curve.

The sound was not overpowering like the roar
of the Garz, but melodious and refreshing. Brenol itched to shed
his clothes and allow the river to wash away all the darkness, all
the nightmares, but the moment seemed heavy with meaning, and so he
stood sinking into clay, waiting for the juile to speak.

Gartoung removed his sandals, smiled gently
at Brenol as though he understood perfectly, and then dipped his
feet into the clear. He continued wading until the water tugged at
his long robes and caused them to billow in a wet flow behind him.
The juile seemed unconcerned, even dipping down into a kneel so
that the hungry current rushed upon his waist.

He looked into the deep, as though searching
beyond it to something greater, and spoke, “Darse’s experience with
the Memory-Stealer, and making him relive it again and again and
again.” He closed his eyes, which were already brimming. “Brenol’s
guilt and bitterness.”

The two stared.

Nothing changed in the water, but the man
did. His face loosened and calmed, and when he surged up aright, he
stood straighter than Brenol had ever seen him stand, and Gartoung
was already a soaringly tall man. He had been made whole somehow,
and it was evident in every feature, every corner of his
countenance.

Gartoung smiled, radiating peace, and
stepped lightly from the cascade. His robes clung to his legs, but
he slipped his sandals back on his wet feet and then turned to
Darse and Brenol with inviting eyes. They gleamed of goodness, of
rest. “You may choose the healing of the water whenever you are
ready.”

“I…” Darse stopped, and then nodded.

Brenol felt a hot darkness rumble within,
and it scared him. “Why do
I
need it?”

A crease appeared in Gartoung’s olive brow;
he cared greatly for the boy. “You are weighed by much, Brenol
Tilted-Ash. Much.” Brenol felt bare before his dark gaze. “There is
freedom in giving it to the water.”

Gartoung slipped a hand into the folds of
his robe and extracted several bulky items. Brenol stepped forward
to survey them and sighed in comprehension. For days he had spied
the juile intently bent over random materials, but pieces had been
secreted away whenever he had approached. Gartoung now held out two
pairs of sandals, nearly identical to his own rough footwear.

Brenol and Darse plucked them up—Brenol with
curiosity and Darse with skepticism—and turned the pieces over in
their hands. They were smoothed pieces of bark with narrow strips
of rope the consistency of cow hide. They were secured with a small
knot at the tip of the bark, laced through to hold the piece
between large and smaller toes, and crossed in several places with
enough strap left to wrap around an ankle several times.

“Thank you,” Brenol said. He glanced at his
worn and callused feet, then at the juile’s. It seemed a near
impossibility he would ever make sense of the maze of loops and
straps. Gartoung’s swarthy toes wiggled amidst the lacing as if in
answer.

“In good accord,” he replied.

Darse nodded as well—a head dip of
gratitude—and Gartoung flashed him a smile.

The juile then inhaled with relish, scooped
up his sodden robes, and strode into the forest without concern as
to whether his companions followed.

The two trailed after his soft steps,
hugging their new sandals to their chests, neither speaking a
word.

~

Three days later, the two had still shyly
skirted the river. Darse had felt a keen embarrassment and wanted
to delay the inevitable while Brenol had nursed and fed his anger
without relent. Yet now they prepared to leave. Gartoung had made
this much clear: Darse had recovered as far as their current
situation would allow; time and peace would manage the rest. The
two devised an eastern trek, during which they would meet and cross
the Barn and arrive finally in Trilau in two or more days. From
there, the journey to Graft would take another few days, but
Gartoung promised the crossing of the Songra would be simple, for
its current was swimmable at this point in the season.

While Darse finished his breakfast, Gartoung
spoke to Brenol in the protection of the trees. His voice was low,
audible only to his companion. “Be careful. Watch Darse. He may
need you to force him to tell of it more.”

The prospect held little appeal. “But he
seems better now,” Brenol said, yet even in speaking the words knew
otherwise: there was a shadow hanging over Darse. He had healed
dramatically in their near moon with Gartoung, but it was like
there was a darkness still worming about in the tender spaces of
his soul.

Brenol sighed and asked resignedly, “When
will I know he’s all right?”

Gartoung thought before responding. “When he
no longer wishes the man dead.”

Brenol’s face opened in incredulity,
especially as he recalled his oath made several days
previously.

“The waters—Darse may heal there in ways he
never could elsewhere, and faster. Encourage him.” The man’s dark
eyes pleaded but were met with an icy resistance in the boy’s.
“Forgiveness is a sign of freedom, Brenol Tilted-Ash.” Gartoung
bowed wistfully to the youth and added, “It has been bountiful.”
The words were clearly rote, but the juile spoke them
genuinely.

Brenol glanced to his feet, drawing in a
breath to speak, but when he raised his eyes, he found the wood
empty. Brenol had not even been able to hint at his gratitude, let
alone say farewell. The boy slumped, wishing for more.

Darse emerged through the trees. “Gartoung?”
he asked, but then answered his own question, “
Like smoke from a
fading wick
.”

The words conjured up a smile. “You’re
embarrassing, Darse,” Brenol said.

“I have learned much from you,” Darse
replied with a mocking bow.

“Hmph.”

“I’m sure glad we got out of Veronia,” Darse
said, after a time. He shot a glance at Brenol, a dry smile upon
his lips.

Brenol’s face sobered. He eyed the man
sincerely. “I’m sure glad you’re ok, Darsey.”

“Me too. Me too.” He shook his head back and
forth, muttering, “If it isn’t one mind trick, it’s another.
Massada is a play yard for ’em.”

The youth’s stomach twisted, shame flooding
through him. Darse’s suffering was selfless, but his own? He knew
that inner monster only too well. All he burned for was power.

Brenol sucked in air cautiously through his
teeth and felt the nausea dissipate, but in its place, for the
first time, he recognized a trace of homesickness. Adventures were
exciting in books and told around the fire, but to walk and breathe
them was another matter. They were cold and miserable and
straining. Even horrifying.

Brenol shouldered their single pack, and
they picked their way through the woods that had housed them for
what felt like a lifetime.

Malitas
shall never stop. It seeks evil
the way the living seek breath.

-Genesifin

Darse and Brenol settled upon a gentle pace
to break back into the journey, especially in light of their new
footwear. It proved to be a wise resolution. The land between
Tonkyon and the Barn was a tangled mess of rock and forest, making
the distance they had to cover seem much greater than it really
was. Brenol attempted to gauge Darse’s health and stamina without
making it too obvious he was doing so.

The day wore on endlessly. Each withheld his
thoughts as they scanned the land for the bizarre, hoping
desperately to reach the Barn without incident. Their necks tingled
as Selet’s eye bore hotly upon them—even Darse could not deny its
keen prick—and the thick foliage crowded them with memories of
their initial encounter with Fingers.

A river had never been such a welcome
sight.

The water was every bit as wild as they had
been told. It thundered mightily northeast, and the two opted to
pull back into the woods to camp for the night away from its roar.
The following day they traipsed the dusty trail that miraculously
wound alongside the waterway. Neither spoke, for it would have
required shouting over the rushing din, but there was little to say
anyway, and the two reached the crossing to Bompaul by evening.

The stone bridge was unmanned, and the two
trudged over, halting momentarily in the center to marvel at the
power flowing under their feet. Once across, Brenol turned down the
path towards the town, but he stopped as Darse’s hand clasped his
forearm with a sudden pressure.

“Darse?” Brenol asked. He eyed the man with
concern.

Darse opened his mouth, searching for words.
When none came, he exhaled in shame and cast his golden orbs to the
ground.

“Want to camp tonight?” Brenol asked
gently.

He nodded, his face sagging but
grateful.

~

That night, the flames licked up merrily as
the two huddled close to the warm blaze. All was quiet, save for
the popping of the wood and the distant roar of the Barn
.
Darse avoided his companion’s green gaze and finally settled into
his blankets with a clenched relief. Brenol kept watch for several
hours before setting aside his thoughts and succumbing to
exhaustion.

The chilly night air eventually overpowered
the fire. Darse, awake, peered at the paltry blaze. His whole body
shivered, but he did not rouse himself to stoke the embers back to
life. He closed his eyes tightly and willed the sun to hide
forever.

~

Brenol decided they should circumvent
Bompaul, even though Darse seemed more keen on the town with the
day’s new light, in favor of heading straight to Trilau. The road
to Trilau was well-tended, and they eased down it with a reserved
thankfulness. Fellow travelers walked beside them, all sharing
Gartoung’s olive complexion and style of dress. Robes of gray,
black, and white swished past purposefully, and dark eyes peered
curiously at them. Foreigners appeared to be an uncommon sight in
the heart of Selet.

They arrived on the outskirts of Trilau by
late afternoon and found it bustling with movement and life. It was
large, at least by Massadan standards, and seemed bursting. The
people were as compelling to Brenol as Gartoung had been. Their
dark complexions were beautiful, ranging from olives to creamy
browns. Their movement had a tempo: bodies darting, women swaying,
men sashaying. The juile had somehow made motion an art. Even their
sounds created a symphony
.
Splash through the puddle! Heckle
on the street!
Clink, clink, clink
in the pockets!
Swish,
sally, swish
with the robes! He had encountered the alluring
power of the maralane, but this was arresting in a new way.

The two shambled into the main of the town,
filing past buildings and food booths. Darse was quiet but
relatively content and allowed Brenol to lead. The colors of the
stands first attracted the two, but then their grumbling stomachs
did the rest. The boy dug around in the pack for their money—they
had only the shares that remained from Brenol’s pack—and purchased
an apparent staple: filleted fish plopped into the center of a hot
bun, edible tails included. The two palmed their dinners, munching
and walking slowly, on the hunt for an inn.

It did not take long. The inn was built in
juile fashion: two story pebble-dash with flowing portiere in
polychrome reds, oranges, and yellows. Windows lay naked and open
for the fragrant air, and herbs filled the beds below their
awnings. It was a free-standing structure, nothing formal or
grandiose, but it whispered to the wayfarer of beauty and relief
from travels.

It did not break its promise.

Darse and Brenol were given baths, a room
with two cots, and an additional supper, which was not turned away.
The room was simple, with swept earthen floors, comfortable, and
surprisingly warm. A plain-faced juile brought fresh water and
arranged heavy tapestries against the open window to prevent dusk’s
cool from creeping in.

That night, Brenol lay staring into the
dark. The sounds of the house washed over him: pattering of feet,
dishes clanking, sturdy
thwamp-thwamp
of the door tapestries
falling back into place after tall bodies pushed past. His mind
grappled with the problem of Darse.

He seems better…almost.

When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed of
Gartoung calling him from the river. He plowed through the woods
searching for the juile
,
but suddenly Crayton leaped out of
the undergrowth to wrap his wiry fingers around Brenol’s neck and
choke out his life.