The Land's Whisper (11 page)

“That’s fine,” he replied gently. “But let’s
sleep now.” Darse rolled over, but his memory lingered upon the
white head of his father. Eventually he released all and sank back
into sleep.

Brenol, however, lay with both hands deep in
straw and eyes large but unseeing in the black pitch.

A sliver of a voice tickled the air.

Again,
Brenol thought.
I know I
heard it.

It had been but a wisp, but suddenly his
whole person felt receptive.

“
I am Garnoble,
” it said. “
And you
are Brenol.
”

~

The morning light drew Darse’s consciousness
to the surface, but he groaned and pulled the blankets up over his
face. He felt the lack of sleep acutely, and it only intensified
the hoary experience of aging. When he finally peered out from the
soft folds, he was greeted by an empty bale beside him. Brenol was
not there.

His stomach churned for a second before he
pieced together his calm.
The visnati are good,
he repeated
like a chant, slowly shifting his way from the stabbing straw
pallet to a seat. The anxiety ebbed, and he rubbed his limbs to
life.

“Breakfast and Bren. They are most likely in
the same place.”

Darse rose and set off to find them
both.

~

The previous night, Brenol had lain awake,
his heart quickening and stomach squirming. He had sensed an eye
upon him and felt like a fish in a bowl.

Something is looking at me. Watching me.

Brenol rose and walked the moonlit gardens.
The air was cool about him, and the growing flora filled his
nostrils with subtle scents. The downy lands were misty and dark,
but Stronta and Veri provided enough light for him to navigate. He
passed through orchards and fields, and still the strange sensation
refused to abate.

His heels led him past house and habitation,
as though they knew where to seek peace. The inner distress calmed
only when he stood far beyond the visnati boundaries and in the cup
of the land’s hand. He sat in the dewy grass and felt the cool
moisture seep into his clothing. The trees whistled under a breath
of wind that lightly sighed across the knoll. His skin quivered
with damp and chill, but he refused to leave.

This. This is something I need to know. I’m
not leaving until I figure it out.

Brenol pondered Darse’s story.
The lands
are alive.
Often had his friend told him stories of Massada—and
he had always believed them to be fantasy—but here he was standing
in the midst of it. He had heard the land speak and felt a strange
humming in his blood. His mind grappled with understanding, but his
core bellowed that the ground beneath him was indeed alive.

Breathe, Bren,
he thought.
At
least no one is here to see if I really am crazy.

A wry smile flickered momentarily upon his
smooth face; he felt anything but alone.

Breathe.

“Garnoble?” he asked.

No sound returned, save the gentle kiss of
the wind touching turf.

Brenol blinked. The silence punctured him
with doubt, yet the sense of the hovering eye still held his spine
with cold hands.

He tried again. “Garnoble?”

Nothing.

Brenol exhaled. He was surprised to not feel
relief. Instead, disappointment pooled into his gut. He allowed his
eyelids to fall, searching for the right words. “I’m not afraid
anymore…and I want to understand.” Brenol opened his eyes to stare
blankly at his hands: filthy cold, thin. He feared he was imagining
it all. “Who are you? Will you talk to me?”

“
Yes.
”

It was a subtle voice, nothing like the one
in the cave, yet hearing it convinced him of the reality of both.
“I hear you,” he replied, dumbfounded.

The boy inhaled, suddenly awake with thrill
instead of trepidation. He smiled and spoke. Their conversation
flowed forward, although the land’s speech was trim and without
flourish. It was entirely unlike conversing with another human, but
Brenol found it made sense nonetheless. It was so natural for
him—as natural as the heat of his blood and the hue of his hair.
Pleasure bubbled within as he realized as much. It was easy. Simply
easy.

The two spoke until morning light streaked
the sky and the red sun warmed his forgotten limbs. Brenol roused
his aching body and slid his way back into Coltair. Few were awake,
let alone out of doors, to notice his movements, and he came to the
heart of town without being questioned.

Peace is but an illusion while malitas
walks the land.

-Genesifin

Brenol did not tell anyone about conversing
with the land. At first, he wilted before the difficulty of
articulating the experience, but soon the initial silence turned
into a burning secret that he feared to touch. While he did not
doubt the land or himself, he wondered about how others would
perceive him. And so the secret grew hotter within his chest.

Burning, burning, every night he slipped
away like a creature of the shadows to converse with the land, and
every day he became more aware that others experienced this place
and the eye far differently.

Days merged as the two found a place amongst
the visnati. They were a hospitable people, and Darse’s fear melted
before the tangible world of fishing poles and tilled soil. His
towering height granted him a confidence—however false it might
be—and helped shake loose any lingering suspicion of dreams and
voices and the evanescent.

The village of Coltair was a vast space of
open and cultured land nestled beside Pearia
,
yet still
close enough to the eastern ranges to invite a daily neck crane
toward the purple and gray peaks. The visnati grew extensive
gardens, stretching out for matroles, that they collectively termed
Gardenia. They had hothouses for seedlings and other plants but
concentrated the majority of their energies in the tilling of the
open land. The small community—no more than three hundred
persons—shared the crops from the Gardenia, and each family also
had a side plot beside their house for private use. There was
enough for all, for they knew their craft and labored hard, and the
visnati were hospitable. Darse and Brenol were never made to feel
unwelcome.

There was ample work in the Gardenia, and
their hosts were eager to teach. They instructed the two on
Garnoble’s crops and Rook accompanied the two fishing along the
Pearia, demonstrating how to snag the larger fish in the nooks of
the river bottom while leaving the smaller ones to grow and mature.
They were even taught brewing and learned to gather the roots used
to make the varieties of ale, which ranged from thick and bitter to
creamy and sweet.

The visnati were an easy-going race. The
slow pace of life and the working of the land showed in their
sturdy but relaxed faces. Mirth flowed out in friendly speech, and
there was little formality among them. Their eyes twinkled when
they conversed, and Darse could see it plainly: they were
satisfied. The day was meant for working with friends; the night,
for rejoicing with them. The visnati lived every day doing what
they loved and with the people they loved. Their life seemed to
draw out all the beautiful aspects of his life in Alatrice, while
abandoning the loneliness, politics, and toil. He breathed more
fully every day.

~

Brenol’s laugh rang out merrily, accompanied
in a breath by a chorus of shouts and whoops. Darse glanced up from
peeling potatoes, face beginning to stretch into a grin, to
determine the cause for the boy’s mirth.

Brenol had joined a party of children in the
space of lawn beside the work tables, and all crouched in a ring,
immersed in a game. The youth towered over the tiny figures, but
each body crowded and pressed forward with equal excitement. Darse
smiled at the evident eagerness of the group. A dark haired boy,
likely Brenol’s age, stood suddenly in the center. He tipped
several small objects from his hand and sent them rolling within
the circle with an exaggerated swipe. Every face leaned in, and
laughter rocked their frames as the boy hollered in
frustration.

“Prags,” a voice explained genially.

Darse looked to his side. A round, coppered
face beamed good naturedly at him. It was a visnat he had seen
before, but only in passing. His most prominent feature was a pair
of extremely furry eyebrows. They were brown and jumped with every
expression.

“Prags,” the visnat repeated. “The game. The
kids love it. In another moon they will play something else, but
for now, it is prags and only prags at every chance.”

Darse laughed. “We don’t have that one on
Alatrice, I think. But I know the behavior.” He glanced again to
Brenol, whose back was to him now.

“I’m Tirol.”

Darse dipped his head in friendly
acknowledgment. “Darse.”

Tirol settled himself at the table across
from Darse and collected a knife, joining in the peeling. “You’ve
been here a septspan?”

“A little over,” Darse replied, returning to
task.

“Bren fits in well here,” Tirol commented.
“He learns quickly.”

“He likes Coltair. That much is
evident.”

They both raised their vision to the
laughing children, suddenly aroar.

“Are you planning to stay long?” Tirol
asked.

Darse shrugged his shoulders. “I do not
know. I’m trying to find a way to get Bren back through the
portal.” He sighed quietly, potato and knife forgotten in his
hands.

Tirol nodded. “I’ve never heard of an
allowance, but the maralane are not impossible.”

“No?” Darse said, flickering awake with
hope.

“Different, but not impossible.” Tirol
smiled. “They may not be interested in the little things about us,
but they are for Massada. That is what motivates them.”

Darse considered his words silently.

“If you do stay, in several moons we have
Velsfest. It’s our big celebration. Tents, lights, drinks, food,
games.” He jutted his chin in Brenol’s direction. “Bren would like
it. Every girl and boy likes it.” He grinned, revealing a crooked
and happy smile. “I like it.”

Darse returned the gesture. “Perhaps. I have
no idea what I’m doing right now.”

“What made you come?” Tirol asked
curiously.

“Well, my da told me stories. But he also
made me promise to come and see Massada at least once.”

“Are you finding what you expected?”

Darse looked around, pondering the new life
he had discovered in such a brief time. It was difficult to assume
this could continue, but even still, the holiday was appreciated.
“I can’t say I knew what to expect.”

Tirol plopped his peeled potato into the
pail and stood with gusto. “Well, that’s because you didn’t know
about prags. Here in Coltair it is prags and only prags! Come,
come! I will teach you.”

Darse laughed, setting his own potato and
knife down. “Prags it is,” he replied and marched obediently after
his new instructor to join the rambunctious circle of children.

~

It was about two septspan into their stay
when Colvin rounded out of the Gardenia to find Brenol and Darse
resting in the afternoon shade after a long day of harvesting.
Their faces were smeared with dark brown loam, and their
clothes—loose pants and long sleeves gifted by their hosts—were
stained knee down and elbow out. Their feet were as bare as every
other pair in Coltair. The two alternated ladling the cool bucket
water to their lips and watched tiredly as Colvin ambled up,
similarly drenched in sweat and clothed in soil. He wore a straw
hat to shield his head from the sun, and worn work gloves hung
lazily from his trouser pocket.

“Hey, Colvin,” said Brenol after a large
gulp. “It feels like ages since we saw you.”

I could have gone longer,
thought
Darse. He was unable to perceive Colvin’s intentions behind the
casual demeanor, and he peevishly found it grating.

Colvin raised an eyebrow, allowing a brief
twitch of his lips to play on his face. “Enough time to shake the
skinny off of you,” he remarked. The twitch turned into a full
grin.

Brenol looked down and laughed. Indeed, he
was not as scrawny as when he had arrived, despite the brevity of
their stay. Food here was plentiful.

Colvin’s voice was low and fell only upon
their ears. “Will you join me this evening? I’ve a few things to
discuss with you.” His face betrayed nothing. “I imagine you have
supper plans, but come over after and we shall have a good talk. My
house is the one across from Guntar’s.” He turned and pointed in
the general direction. “You will recognize it because I’m the only
one who uses his side plot for flowers.” There was no hint of
embarrassment, it was just straightforward Colvin.

After they nodded their assent, Colvin
sipped a ladle of water and wiped away the sweat from cheek and
brow. He left with his characteristically sober expression,
stepping softly with gloves a-flap.

~

They dined that evening with the Colburns, a
genial couple with three rosy-cheeked daughters. The conversation
was warm and full of laughter, but before the meal had even
commenced, Brenol found his spine clenching and his neck tingling
to life in a now-familiar way.

After dinner, instruments were procured, and
the girls padded about in light dance to their father’s fiddling.
Brenol remained seated. He itched to be free and walking the bare
countryside.

Garnoble’s eye,
he thought.
It is
so strongly on me.

Eventually the party spoke farewells. Brenol
tugged his light jacket on and smiled his thanks but could barely
hide his impatience. There was much of the night ahead before he
would meet the consolation of solitude.

As they walked to Colvin’s house, Darse
glanced at the quiet Brenol but did not interrupt his musings, and
they soon came upon a plot dense with flowers and fruit. It was a
beautiful garden, even in the dusk. The scents mingled in a citrusy
sweetness and accompanied them down the winding path to the
doorway. Their knocks produced Colvin, attired in a tide of blue.
He had washed from the day’s work and stood before them with an
unusual spark in his eyes. Darse peered at him curiously. Yes, the
visnat’s cloak of quiet detachment had been shed, and his face was
open and relaxed. Either Colvin was a creature of home, or he had
deemed the two trustworthy enough to reveal his true air.