The Land's Whisper (39 page)

“Was he in danger?”

Darse stared at the fire. It was answer
enough.

“Why did you decide it had to be you to
watch over him?”

Darse nodded his head but paired the gesture
with a shrug. “Can one really explain love so easily? The boy
needed me. Yes, no one expected anything of me, but choosing right
is more than meeting expectations. I chose that day to love the
boy. And…our lives followed.” Darse shook his head in wonder; their
lives really had changed drastically from that day and hour.

There was silence.

“I have no idea what you’re thinking. I
can’t see you.”

Arman placed a hand on Darse’s arm. The
pressure drew an involuntary sigh. The warmth from the invisible
digits was soothing, reassuring. He realized with a sudden insight
that the burden was not his alone to carry; Arman loved Brenol
too.

“Darse. I do not see many choices, to be
truthful. Bren has made his decision, and we must respect that… You
do have an obligation to him, and to his mother, but to stop Bren
would be to steal his freedom…to steal his purpose.”

Darse swallowed hard. “He’s still so young,
though…”

“Yes, he is young. But he’s full of life.
You cannot expect him to grow and become a man unless you allow him
to make his own way. We cannot tie him up and leave him somewhere.
There has to be the freedom to choose
both
right and
wrong—safety and danger. And Darse?”

“Yes?” Darse said wearily.

“He has chosen right. He has not given in to
the addiction, to the power. And do not for a second believe that
to be easy. No, he has chosen goodness at great personal
cost.
”

Darse nodded, and proud tears stained his
cheeks as this truth reverberated in his core. Brenol was becoming
a man. But more—he must let him.
Yes, Bren has made the right
choice. He has.
Although Arman’s words were an alleviation,
they did not stop the hot fear from hollowing out his chest.

“There is much before us, friend,” Arman
rumbled gently. “And much upon your heart. Why not take a
walk?”

“In this darkness?”

The juile did not answer; he rarely wasted
words.

Strolling about was the last thing Darse
felt inclined to do, yet his mind hammered away until, eventually,
he roused himself to a stand and set out from the fire with a soft
stretch of his legs. They seemed to know where he must go, even if
he did not, and he ambled through the dense foliage, hoping Conch
snakes did not bite. Within minutes, he found himself before the
Choali.

It took him aback.

Must I? Again?

Darse glanced up to the heavens, now open
under the thinning forest at the water’s edge, and the soft light
of Veri beamed down amidst the smattering of glistening stars. Not
a cloud hovered to mar the vision, and he could almost taste the
exquisite beauty. His breathing slowed in contentment.

All right.

He carefully toed his way along the rocky
bank to a sand bar not more than fifty strides north. He peeled his
clothes off slowly and knelt down in her shallow banks. She
caressed him with her cool currents, and the nip of the night
tickled his bare chest. He pushed his fingertips through her smooth
cascades and fought to release the last vestiges of resistance.

Finally, he whispered out across the moving
waters. “I have to let go of Bren… I’m so scared he’ll get hurt…
That I will fail him…

“Bren’s mother. I don’t know what to do
about her… I hate her, but I fear for her life…

“The dream of the tree… I saw all that
goodness destroyed for no reason. And I couldn’t do anything…

“Jerem, the hole in his yard. I was so
scared waiting for Bren and Arman to emerge…”

His words continued, and the waters
cleansed. Tears choked their way out as liberty poured in, and the
burden swept away like palmed feathers meeting the wind’s kiss. He
knelt in the flow until his body became more prune than skin, and
sensation was lost to the night cool.

Dawn was not far off when he re-clothed,
crept back to camp, and curled into his blankets.

Simplicity is a mark of wisdom; a cartontz knows as
much.

-Genesifin

It took two days to reach Ziel, and before
they passed into the lugazzi
,
Brenol lit upon his heels and
set his hand on the soil. “Thank you,” he whispered, his tone
almost tender. The boy turned ahead to the neutral ground and did
not look back. Upon crossing, Arman’s transparent figure came into
view.

“No. Arman,” Brenol said incredulously. “How
do you stay so clean?”

Arman surveyed the youth nonchalantly. “How
do you get so dirty?” His long face spread into his attractive and
even smile. The boy almost wept, it was so good to see.

“Not many Massadans walk with the respect
you have for the terrisdans,” Arman said, flicking a long finger in
the direction of Conch.

Brenol shrugged, although he sensed the
juile’s comment was more a question than a statement. Brenol found
it nearly impossible to set words to the experience—the feel of the
land’s eye upon him, the comfort and alarm of it tickling his neck,
the relief and disappointment to walk the lugazzi
—
and he
doubted he ever would.

“Well, what’s the plan?” the boy finally
asked. “Do we borrow a boat from the maralane? Or wait for
Ordah?”

Arman shook his head and lowered his hand,
indicating the need for low voices. “The maralane do not simply
share their territory. It will take some fine negotiating before we
will be allowed to pass into their waters.”

Darse thrust his hands into his pockets.
“How did Jerem get over then? Is there a way to get past the
maralane?”

“Not likely.”

“Arman,” Brenol said impatiently.

Arman breathed out heavily. “I do not know,
Bren. I do not know. I have moved the pieces and parts of this
situation around in my mind for many steps. For days. And yes, I
know he is somewhere around Ziel, and I feel it like a stone in my
stomach that he is out on that island with her, but under no
circumstance could he have gotten there. It is an impossibility.
Who would help him? No maralane would. And Ordah’s vision is
painfully lacking.” His tone was short, as though he were furious
at himself for a mystery unsolved.

“I wonder if the location prevents Ordah
from seeing Jerem,” Darse said quietly. “Especially if the water
does bring the special properties that Jerem’s after.”

Arman turned and peered at the man
appraisingly. “That is a thought… Let us keep moving. We are almost
to the place where we shall call for a meeting.”

Arman’s estimate was far from what Brenol
would have considered close, for the next several hours consisted
of tedious climbing. The group strained their way through the rocky
terrain clothed in megaliths and stony outcroppings, and both Darse
and Brenol rasped in the thin air. Finally, as the scents of
evening began to suggest nightfall, the trio crested a rise and
were rewarded with a vision of Ziel.

They clambered down after the juile with
alacrity, and after a spell they stood before the vast body. Arman
led them around the shoreline to a peaceful nook protected by tree
and rock, and Brenol breathed in the rich aromas of fresh soil and
Ziel’s nectar as he watched the sun dip down behind the
mountains.

Arman distributed some cold rations and
roused a fire to life. Brenol allowed the heat to soothe his aching
muscles as he watched the juile begin his next task.

Arman stole into a thick of trees, singling
out a gray-blue trunk with leaves as fragile as ashes. He dug the
tips of his fingers into the bark and peeled it as one would an
orange. He collected at least eight long strips of the spongy gray,
pulled up a tight fistful of sandy grass from his feet, and finally
burrowed his olive fingers around in the moist brown clay until he
had uncovered a brick-red nut about the size of a man’s heel. He
carried his treasures back to the light of the fire. Brenol forgot
his worn body and arched forward to observe.

Arman’s voice shook his nerves to life when
he finally spoke, despite its muted rumble. “It is a knock on the
door.”

“Huh?” Brenol responded.

The juile’s nimble fingers dipped back and
forth as they teased and wove the gray bark loosely, but durably,
around the red nut. He pushed the strands of grass in so that they
cupped the nut from below. It resembled a caged nest. “Every
culture has an etiquette. The maralane are no exception. Yes, I
could just slap my hand upon the water and wait for a response, but
it would have the same effect as a stranger walking through your
front door and taking a seat in your favorite chair. Assuming.
Rude.” He lifted his intense eyes for a moment to meet Brenol’s.
“And most creatures from the upper world do not understand it. They
forget that the water is a world that does not allow for trespass.
The maralane are a different race but not as unintelligible as many
believe.”

Brenol nodded to Arman in understanding; he
saw a parallel immediately. The etiquette of creature to terrisdan
was also a tricky enterprise.

“How does it work?” Darse asked, leaning
in.

“The brechant nut burns, but not hot enough
to consume the bark from the coantal tree. The light shines through
the waters to those watching. They will emerge when they see, or at
least when it is appropriate for them—I am no expert on maralane
culture. We just make our lamp and wait.”

Arman shuffled out onto a mossy boulder that
edged the lake. He strung the nut basket from a branch hanging low
over the waters. He left but soon returned to extend another bough,
dripping with the blaze of campfire, to the basket, until the grass
nest within ignited. Darse and Brenol waited without much
anticipation.

Pop! Pop! Pbbbthhhuuup! Pop!

The two blinked, stunned as the nut roused
into a fiery red globe, glinting and fizzing. It was more alive
than the firework stick Darse had purchased for Brenol one autumn.
Brenol’s mouth rounded into a child-like grin, but then dropped in
open-jawed awe. The nut had only begun its demonstration. It now
danced and jumped about in the confines of the spongy basket,
rocketing out streams of crimson light in all directions and
leaving smears of color in their night-soaked vision. Scarlet
flames beamed down to the lake, pushed the waters aside, and dipped
into the depths like a knife passing through jelly.

Darse turned to Arman and asked wryly, “Just
make our lamp and wait?”

Arman’s face erupted in a smile. “I enjoy
surprise.”

Brenol laughed, “No. You enjoy astonishment
at your tricks.”

He flicked his fingers out in the juile
equivalent of a shoulder shrug, yet his face was mirthful. “I do
have bountiful tricks.”

Brenol’s laugh echoed out again, sliding
over the waters like a skipping stone. He bobbed his red head in
agreement and silently marveled at the light shower.

~

The lamp burned for several hours, although
the fantastic shafts endured for only the first. After that, it
became a steady glow: a crimson-orange orb, alive like an ember,
creating a lovely luster against the dark backdrop of night. Brenol
and Darse had ceased craning their attention out upon the still
waters long ago, sinking instead into the soft sounds of the
evening and their blankets.

Arman, though, marked the cold, white hand
that silently grasped the dying brechant nut and smothered it under
the black waters. The only movement the juile made—a slight
frown—went unnoticed by his sleeping companions.

Events cascade together, but comprehension will be
lost in the maze of evil.

-Genesifin

“You may not pass,” the maralane
growled.

Arman did not argue. He stood while the wind
whipped at his gray robes, a stoic figure before the furious
milky-clear army of maralane. His silence only incensed them.

“You will not win this, Arman. Not now, not
ever. You ask what cannot be granted. Ever.” The lake-man quivered
in rage.

Arman still did not rejoin.

Brenol waited, nerves stretched. He had
woken to Ziel no longer placid and benign. At dawn the maralane had
emerged, bitter and dripping, with webbed fingers grasping tools of
death, resting atop the waters in wait. His subconscious had roused
him despite the hour, unraveling Arman’s clicking in the folds of
his dreams.

Danger! Wake! Do not speak. Wait,
Arman’s beads had said.

Brenol had righted, shedding his blankets
with the movement, and had remained standing for what could only
have been hours. His body and mind ached from the tension, and his
belly growled for attention. Brenol’s eyes met the steely black
pupils of the maralane, and they stared back with a foreign
fury.

“I will talk with Preifest,” Arman said
finally.

A male maralane rolled his head back, sturdy
neck bulging in ire. “You will not!”

“Your isle is no secret, at least not any
longer.”

“You dare accuse maralane of deception? Of
betrayal?
We
have no connection with the upper-world. No
maralane would help you—
anyone—
out upon our waters.” He
flinched as if in doubt but still spit his mocking words. “You are
a fool, Arman. A fool.”

“Then we shall wait for Ordah.”

The name sent a silent and motionless wave
across the lake. Where rebuke once lay, hesitation now marked
faces, hands, and weapons. The defiant spark in each dark eye was
suddenly tinged with a doubt. No words were whispered, no motion
made, but it was an undeniable effect. The name had the force of a
hurricane.

Arman spoke softly but unmistakably, “I give
you a day. Ordah arrives soon, but even if he did not, I would not
underestimate the juile.”