The Land's Whisper (56 page)

“What’s the Genesifin about? What is it?”
Brenol finally asked.

Preifest’s brow elevated; he was astonished.
“You do not know?” He peered down into the water, mumbling to
himself, “He has to know…”

A thought must have eased his mind, for the
maralane’s face smoothed and returned to its austere mold. “It is
of no matter. You perhaps do not even realize you know. But you
know. It is the sacred book entrusted to us for Massada.”

This was little consolation to Brenol.
Riddles had been rubbing him raw since he had tumbled from the
watery cave. “And what am I supposed to do with it?”

“That is for the upper world to determine,”
Preifest replied enigmatically. Whether he perceived the tremor of
frustration in Brenol’s expression or simply decided to elaborate,
Preifest leaned forward in the water and spoke even more softly,
“Yet, it was chosen for you to hold and protect for a purpose…
Guard it, learn it, discover its wealth. Purpose will show itself
eventually.”

He nodded his head slowly. “You have the
first decision as to what happens with it. You may choose to share
or conceal according to your reason, but be aware that it should
not be taken flippantly; the Genesifin
will
come to pass.
Whether you prepare them for it is your own decision.”

How can I do anything? Let alone what I
don’t know about,
Brenol thought in irritation.

“You are being asked to carry much. This is
no small matter, Brenol.”

“But you won’t tell me what I have to do?”
the boy insisted.

Preifest met Brenol’s eyes with his purple
gaze yet remained silent.

Brenol itched to heave the Genesifin back
into the depths and turn his heels in flight.
No one would even
know,
he thought, but he recognized at the same moment that his
own heart would never allow it.
I’ve got to buy the roll I’ve
bitten—Massada, Colette, Veronia, the list never ends. I can’t run,
and it’s no use hiding.

He sighed and shifted the white book between
his hands as though the weight of the small manuscript were the
reason for his sinking shoulders.

Brenol’s eyes rose, and he realized the
conversation had come to a close. Preifest bent his neck, slightly
bowing his head in a gesture of respect and farewell. Brenol began
to do the same but stopped, the conversation with Arman suddenly
looming in his memory. “Does this have anything to do with Colette?
And the isle? Ordah?”

Preifest remained stationary for several
moments. He spoke in a hoarse whisper, “Brenol, take the gift… It
is a discussion for next time.”

Brenol’s brows furrowed. He sensed he was
irking the leader but could not comprehend exactly why. “Next
time?” he asked cautiously.

“Yes. There will be one more. You must read
the Genesifin first. You must realize its destiny… Then we shall
speak and understand each other clearly.”

Preifest’s tone bore finality, yet Brenol
could not help but continue. “Are the maralane dying?”

The maralane’s face clenched, and his violet
eyes narrowed as he scrutinized his guest closely. When he spoke,
his voice was quiet and laced with danger. “You see more than you
say, young Brenol Tilted-Ash. I don’t know how you have deduced
this or why you conceal your knowledge of the Genesifin. I would
have it another way. Maralane speak plainly.”

Brenol’s insides lurched.
It’s true,
then. They’re failing. Arman was right.

Preifest’s hard purple eyes were still stony
as he mumbled in his hoarse maralane baritone. “—a time to grieve
for what is good that will be lost.”

Brenol felt so small. He longed to find
clarity, to express his own grief for the maralane, yet did not
know where to begin. The confirmation to Arman’s musings had left
him dumb, and Preifest undoubtedly perceived it instead as cunning.
Brenol felt every lacking day of his fourteen orbits.

And with this, Preifest nodded curtly and
was no more. Small concentric circles marked his path from the
upper world.

~

Brenol began the journey to Limbartina with
heavy heels. Spence had bidden farewell in the lugazzi, and the
parting was a bitter close to an already sour meeting on Ziel. The
visnat’s demeanor had been stiff and cool, with Brenol again left
guessing as to the reasons. The youth boxed away his tense grief
and maneuvered through the countryside alone, thankful he had
minded the route on the previous day. The afternoon dragged on as
he kicked dirt and rocks up in agitation and the sun beat hotly
upon his neck. He wondered absently if hitze was almost here.

“The Genesifin,” Brenol mumbled to himself,
feeling the pocketed book rub against his leg with each step. When
he had first handled it, he had longed to scour the pages and
caress the smooth binding, but now he fought the compulsion to
abandon it to time and decay.

The boy nudged the ground with a toe,
contemplating the hole necessary.

“Are you a fool, Bren?” he said, shaking his
head. “Sometimes I wonder.”

The youth threw up his hands in surrender
and plopped himself upon a smooth rock planted under three rising
ash trees. It held enough protection from the sun to allow a faint
relief, and he worked the book from his pocket. He sought to clean
his soiled hands before handling the pages but eventually
relinquished the fruitless endeavor. He inhaled deeply and opened
it.

The first pages were blank and nearly
blinding in their brightness. He turned the sheets until he
encountered words, and soon his upper lip curled in displeasure. He
flipped through the remaining pages, stopping occasionally to scan
new sections. There were no words of fate. There was no sense, no
enlightenment. His scowl only intensified.

“I may bury this yet,” he murmured.

~

Hours later, Brenol had not relinquished his
place in the trio of trees. He felt the foolishness of remaining as
the fiery sun rounded her course into the west, but he could not
urge his heels to any action aside from pacing. The glowing orb
finally dipped down in the sky, and the youth turned to her with
exhausted desperation. She hung for a few lovely moments, thrusting
blinding orange shafts out across the sky before settling down
behind the horizon and exploding the heavens with the pink of
twilight.

Darkness crept forward, yet still Brenol
remained. The cool air provided gentle relief after the crowding
heat. He breathed slowly and clicked his palmed beads together in
an attempt to compose his thoughts. It seemed to only lengthen the
argument in his head.

Arman’s face suddenly filled his mind, and
the glance from the juile was rich with meaning.

“I
know
,” he finally whispered to
himself. “I just don’t
want
to.”

As if the juile shared his company, Brenol
pricked his ears to the echo of Arman’s words from what seemed
orbits and orbits ago: “
You will indeed refuse to give in… It is
what Massadans call benere
.”

Brenol released a tiny laugh. “You always
know what to say, don’t you, Arman?”

He splayed out upon the soft heather and
found that both mind and body had settled. He breathed deeply and
drank in the stars as they emerged, calling those he knew by name
in a gentle whisper as if they were old friends. The breeze was
light and tickled his bare feet with cool and kissed his forehead
with freshness. He peered up until his eyes could not endure the
heaviness any longer and then sank into the sleep of a soul at
peace.

~

Brenol met the new day with surprising
alacrity and bounded back to Limbartina with purpose, if not
relish. Upon finding Darse, he concealed nothing from him.

“So what will you do?” the man finally
asked. The Genesifin lay open in the cup of his hand, as much a
mystery to him as to the boy.

Brenol regarded his hands with a somber
determination. Finally, he found his voice. “I’m going to return…to
Alatrice, that is. I’m going back. I need to make sure Ma is safe,
yes. But,” Brenol paused to slap the white album with a subdued,
almost wistful, vigor. “I need to delve into this thing.”

Darse assessed Brenol curiously, seeing the
last remnants of the impetuous boy who would push the worlds apart
to grasp at his whims being swept away. Here, at some point, Brenol
had begun to pause and consider what was truly right.

Nonetheless, Darse’s face wrinkled. “Ordah
has not responded to my seals. He may have agreed to come, but he
is missing.”

Brenol shook his head, his face morose. “He
met me on the road. He recited some mantra or something and told me
the portal would open. It’s in the stars, it would seem.”

Darse sighed, relieved to the center of his
bones. He had torn across this bizarre world to gain this simple
act, and finally it was granted in all casualness. He breathed with
gratitude.
Thank goodness. Finally.

“And you, Darsey?” Brenol asked. “You going
to find a nice Massadan lady?”

Darse raised an eyebrow, and his golden eyes
glinted in humor. “I’m staying, at least.”

The genial expression suddenly and
surprisingly rent Brenol to the core. He pushed his lips together,
hoping to cork the emotions bubbling within.

“I’m going to miss you,” he said. Alatrice
was not home without Darse.

The man smiled easily. “You know, I think
I’ll miss you, too. Sell my stuff if you have to for your
conscription pass.” He winked playfully, and then moved forward and
embraced Brenol roughly. “But I’ll keep an eye on things for you. I
really will. I’ll look after her ’til you get back… And I hope it’s
soon.”

Things are so simple with Darse. No
disguises. No games,
Brenol thought, aching.
My
friend.

The youth’s laugh came out more like a
croak. “No more good-byes after this. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Darse replied.

After a moment, Darse raised his eyes to
meet the youth’s green. Concern was plain in the older man’s gaze.
“Are you sure you’re ok?”

Brenol parted his lips to answer, but then
paused and grew pensive. He inhaled slowly and, magically, a
genuine smile stretched generously across his face. “You know,
Darsey. I am. I feel
right
, even if reading this mess of
silliness back on a farm and paying taxes and growing crops is not
what I want.” He nodded. “Yeah, I am ok.”

Darse eyed the book suspiciously. “Do you
think there’s a code to it?” He curved the binding so that the
pages flapped forward in a wave. He stopped and peered at the
random page, shaking his head in disbelief at the phrase beneath
his index finger. “‘
To love is to serve.’
Now, I don’t
disagree with it, but I just don’t see how the fate of Massada is
resting on it.” Perplexed, he shook his head. “Proverb after
proverb,” he muttered. “It’s just a bunch of religious
nonsense.”

“There has to be,” Brenol replied. “Without
a code? This would just be udertz
.
”

Darse’s mouth pinched in surprise, and his
golden eyes danced in amusement. “See? You know much Massadan code
already. I think you’ll do just fine.” He laughed. “Yes, I think
you’ll do just fine Bren.”

~

How they squirm,
the spirit mused.
How they squirm.

Its pale gray eyes blandly took in the babe
before it. His infant lungs bellowed in hunger pangs, and he kicked
in frustration. The blankets bunched into a tangle until his tiny
limbs were nearly immobile.

It pressed the blankets forward over the
miniature head until both din and movement finally ceased. It
sighed in bored relief.

It licked its lips to moisten them—
always
thirsty here—
and left the crib’s side. Its breasts swelled, and
a sharp prick twisted on both nipples as milk soaked through its
clothing. It smelled too human, and the sensation was altogether
disgusting.

I am sloshing in this woman’s filth.

A mass of red hair toppled from its scalp,
frizzy but comely. It twirled a strand around an index finger
lazily.

I have to get a different host.

It walked from the cottage with the lithe
gait of youth.

Even if it takes me orbits, I will find a
way to bring war,
it thought, skipping along to the village.
I will.

It chortled to itself.
They are as dumb
as gnats.

The battle against malitas
is never fought
alone;

the entire world revolts against its terrible
presence.

-Genesifin

Brenol paced the soladrome. While he had
previously spent his exploratory efforts outdoors so as to be out
with the land, tonight he turned his heels down the sterile
hallways and dim corridors. He couldn’t sleep.

An unease had stolen into his insides like a
concealed intruder. Initially, he had believed it to be angst over
his near departure from Massada, yet the more he walked the more
apparent it became that this was something far different. He could
not put a finger on what, but it certainly had its finger upon
him.

So he walked. And paced.

Most of the dome was reserved for use as the
healing ward, but as he soon came to see, there were vast halls and
eclectic rooms lying in wait for use—their intended purpose unclear
to him. He ghosted through the sundry places without much thought
as his tiny lantern creaked under the movement of his restless
gait. The new sights did little to distract from the mysterious
souring of his stomach, yet still he padded from one to the next,
with a vacant surprise at discovering all the additional space.

After much time, and almost certainly the
creeping up of dawn, Brenol found himself on the fourth and top
floor along yet another corridor, peering in each doorway with a
casual curiosity. Glancing into one and finding it much larger than
he anticipated, he promptly strode in. It was a gathering hall of
sorts, with colorful banners ribboning from the high ceilings and
paintings and maps dressing the walls. Surely at midday it would be
magnificent.