Aur Child
Chapter 47

Are we ready?

Gallia-Tiul rubbed her thumb across the face of the pendant that hung from her neck. At sea, she and Sand Flea had scoured the texts for hours every day. The metallic surface of their scriptleafs glistened from the grease of constant use. They had debated passages and considered interpretations. Sand Flea had proven herself intelligent beyond her years; she had asked penetrating questions, such as why some villages hid their Aur boules while others celebrated them. She had produced logical deductions about their plans, such as the need for more understanding from local elders in Dragon’s Snout about the recent actions of Apostates, and she had made critical statements without fear about Our Order, such as the inconsistencies of teachings about Apostates from one village to the next, or her challenge to the revisionism of those texts. It was during one particular intercourse that Gallia had truly sensed the strength of Sand Flea’s mind.

“I’m proud to have studied all the verses of Our Order in so short a time,” Sand Flea had said.

“Oh, not all, Sand Flea.” Gallia had replied as the ship swayed through the frigid depths of a northern sea in winter. “You’ve just read the most recent edition, dear. Indeed, there have been several prior versions, each based on variations within each village, and all deemed rather antiquated. Much of the older text is cut away. You wouldn’t, for example, care to know much about countless concoctions to treat ailments from which we no longer suffer, or dull passages about those early decades after Cloudburst when we still collaborated with the Apostates, would you?”

Sand Flea had furrowed her forehead. “Why not? Wouldn’t it help us better understand how we were once able to coexist with them?”

Gallia had raised her eyebrows. “I’ll give you that, but the fact remains that it is ancient history. Much has changed since those times, and to read into them would only cloud our intentions with a false nostalgia, nay, false expectations, that are no longer practical.”

“If no one ever reads those older editions, how can you be sure there’s nothing useful there?”

“Oh well, there are some elders who enjoy such hobbies, but I can’t think of a single time in all my decades when their knowledge has been useful.”

“Isn’t there anything in those older versions that might help us better understand why Apostates hide themselves and hunt our Aur Children?”

Gallia had shaken her head. “But we know all too well the answer to these questions. Apostates hide because they’re afraid one enclave might find another and steal its energy, and we cannot trust them because they do not respect the terms of the original treaties.”

“But why then do you even bother to try to reach them now?”

Gallia had leaned forward and looked directly into Sand Flea’s eyes. “Because until now I have only heard of their terrible deeds and hoped they would stay away from my clan. But to experience it for myself, to suffer from that senseless loss, I have come to realize that something different must be done or all that will follow is more misery and further deterioration of the connections between our respective peoples. In other words, Sand Flea, what is needed now is not the stuffy old words and stories of a time well gone, a past that cannot be recovered, but a new set of terms and the beginnings of a new story.”

“And is it possible to make all that happen with just one – was it ‘enclave’ you called it – and by just one elder from a village so far away?”

“Ah, you ask an eternal question: ‘why start somewhere?’ The answer, dear, is that if we don’t try to start somewhere, we will never get anywhere.”

Sand Flea had frowned and said, “But how can anything we agree on with them be passed on to other enclaves?”

Gallia had smiled. “Our star illuminates the unknown, eliminates our fears. So too, Our Order.” She had rocked forward in her seat and continued. “We each have our role, Sand Flea, even when we do not see it at first. Alai-Tiul has had his role; he showed me something I had heretofore refused to see. Through his actions I came to understand that we each have a hand in either improving or holding things back. My role, I believe, is but to use my position of authority to break free from the inertia of our fixed ways, perhaps even just to recognize that such a thing is necessary.” She rotated her forearm so that both the withered palm and back of hand were displayed. “I have not enough strength for anything more. The great task of engagement, deliberation, and expansion of the ideas to other enclaves, must be left to another.”

Sand Flea had nodded slowly but, whether from a lack of understanding or an understanding of the thing too well, had said nothing more about that point.

“Anyway, there’s something else I don’t get.”

“Yes, dear?”

“The wind towers.”

“What about them?”

She pointed to her scriptleaf. “Our Order says, ‘beware technology’. The elders say, ‘meddle not’. It’s all bad. Yet a lightband, a scriptleaf, power cells, pumps, motors, we use all those things.”

“It was agreed a long time ago that these little things are of small quantities and facilitate comfort without risk. They’re simple in and of themselves, and they were designed long ago to do their jobs without the need for further meddling.”

Sand Flea picked up the scriptleaf and turned it in her hand. The rear polished metal and front matte display glinted and glowed in the rotations.

“Does anyone understand how this works?”

“We understand how to use it. That is enough.”

“But if I were to snap it in half…” she shrugged her shoulders, and then, “what would happen? Would all the words spill out from inside?”

Gallia had chuckled. “I think not. It is written that the scriptleaf was procured during the formation of Our Order to allow our people to always keep the texts close at hand. They have survived the ages; I doubt you, or anyone, could break it.”

“And the wind towers?”

“They too were part of our formation. We need not understand them; we only need to take solace in the unlimited energy they provide.”

Sand Flee smirked. “Elder Tiul, forgive me for saying, but to me it all seems like a kind of hypocrisy.”

Gallia nodded solemnly. Both bold and brilliant to say so. She had chosen not to answer the girl.

Thoughts about how much Sand Flea had accomplished during their journey brought a fresh smile to her face, but the ship was now docked in the harbor of Dragon’s Snout, and the true test of their collaboration had come. And, of course, there was Gallia’s more personal travail: the terrifying nightmares which always plagued her. Their horror never grew stale, no matter how many times they were reenacted. Anything she attempted to do to placate those fears did little to relieve her of the scream she heard in her dreams. Awake, it was just a boat. Asleep, she was a murderer. She sought repentance for a terrible sin to which she did not comprehend. To whom should she ask for forgiveness?

“Elder Tiul, they say the innkeeper knows more about him.” Sand Flea reported to Gallia as she shuffled along the snow-packed streets of Dragon’s Snout. She held the frail woman’s arm and led her towards the market square. Gallia’s weary steps revealed the additional toll the long sea voyage had taken on her. Aches and pains were sharper than ever before, pulsating from new places deep within her. The cold, wet air of the harbor did not help.

“More? How did you learn that, child?” Gallia asked through the heavy scarf wrapped around her face.

Sand Flea shrugged her shoulders and laughed, “Everyone here seems to know about him. He must’ve been the most conspicuous thing to walk through this village in years. They all think he’s a madman.”

“A madman? What for?”

“Oh, his usual. He’s been asking about disappeared folks and then he disappeared himself, this time into the forests.” She pointed to a woman selling tapestries, “The weaver over there said he came through two days before the first quarter moon.”

Gallia stopped in the oatmeal slush and looked up in thought. The busy street was canvassed in snow and striding villagers. Behind them, the massive, five-masted merchant vessel Simfonie upon which they had arrived had retracted its sails and was being unloaded, its thick hemp warps creaking around quay bollards. Atop the most prominent hill, seven wind towers soared above the goings-on.

“More than a fortnight ago,” she said, shaking her head. “A very fast ship. Too fast. We may be too late.”

Alai and the Aur boule would be far from this village by now. Her shortsightedness, she thought, paid for by others. Centuries of protection dashed in days. She shivered at the thought of their loss. And there was the loss – someone’s loss was all she could surmise from the irrepressible guilt she felt – of the ship she destroyed, that also haunted her. If she hadn’t been so lost in her own thoughts, she might have noticed the squeezed lips and unusual silence from Sand Flea earlier.

“But what upsets you, dear?” Gallia asked.

Sand Flea looked up to Gallia, eyes swollen with tears, and said, “I want to find her. I want to try to bring our two peoples together like we’ve planned, I want to do the right thing, but I don’t know how. I mean, we’ve traveled all this way, but now that we’re here, I have no idea what to do next.”

Gallia reached out and slid her hand between the thick cowl protecting Sand Flea’s head and her thicker, black hair.

“Wonderful girl, fret not. All life is this way. We are unsure and then we choose. It’s not so much to choose the right thing as it is to avoid the wrong things. Do that, and I know you have the heart and the mind to, and you will succeed.”

Sand Flea smiled through her thin tears.

“Is it really that easy?”

“Not for most, but for you child, one who understands so well the misery caused by people who have done the wrong thing, yes. Yes, it is.”

They had arrived at the Snout and Snuffer. Gallia entered the inn and stomped her snow-crusted feet on the heavy mat in the vestibule. When she and Sand Flea stepped into the barroom proper, the already quiet space silenced to the hiss of whispers. People stole glances at the small, odd-looking woman accompanied by an even smaller companion. Gallia smiled at the few laggards who failed to avoid eye contact. A sailor who she recognized from their ship pointed at her with his small finger and muttered to the man beside him.

She stepped to the large wood-burning stove and warmed her fingers in front of the glass door. Sand Flea took a seat at a table beside the stove. The room was dark and quiet despite the many customers. A younger couple sat facing one another, giggling about something. A group of older men occupied a booth by the window, whispering in the sharp-hitting local tongue. Three women sat together at a round table playing a card game with large glasses of amber ale beside them.

Her hands again responsive, Gallia approached the bar. The large innkeeper stood there; arms locked in front of him in a lean against the dark wood. He nodded slowly as he watched the old woman step towards him.

“Welcome, outlander,” he said.

“Thank you. This is my first time in Dragon’s Snout, you know.”

“Are you an elder?”

“Indeed, I am. But still enough in me to travel far.”

“From where is your homeland, elder?” He walked over to the faucet and poured out a glass of water for her.

“I’ve sailed from the southern continent,” Gallia replied.

“Arrived aboard Simfonie?”

“That’s the one! Mighty fast ship, that is!”

“She doesn’t sail so far south.”

“Oh, no!” she exhaled in an expression of exhaustion. Her hand slapped down on the bar. “No, we have been hopping from ship to ship for weeks trying to get here as soon as possible. You see, I am trying to find someone.”

“Mm-hmm.” He eyed her with suspicion. “Want you food, elder?”

“Food? Well, yes, it would be nice to have some variety after all that ship fare. What is on the menu?”

“We offer moose tonight.”

“A moose? Indeed.” She scanned the room for clues. “Is that moose?” she said, pointing towards two men at the other end of the bar. “What they’re eating?”

“It is.”

“Yes, please. And the same for my little companion,” and she mumbled to herself, “I doubt they have pepper jam here.”

The innkeeper stared at her a moment, and then, “To Drink?”

“One pint, also like that,” she said, again pointing to the men. “Thank you. And water for the girl.”

The innkeeper began to pour the ale out for Gallia. He asked her, “Want you guest room?”

“In fact, I do believe we will need a place to stay. What price for your accommodations?”

“Two meals, two pints, and one bed for twenty merchant pieces each.”

“Are all meals made from moose?”

The innkeeper looked at her with a shrewd scowl that melted slowly into a smirk. “Eggs and ham in the morning,” he said with an eventual smile.

She smiled in return. “Very well, then. That’s settled.”

The innkeeper returned quickly from the kitchen with two large plates of meat and potatoes, similar to the other diners. He placed them on the table in front of the two travelers. Instead of being slathered over the meal, a small bowl contained the cream sauce, while on one plate, a large dollop of green jelly had been placed along the edge. The sharp small of peppers joined the moose as a surprise to Gallia.

“Oh, dear! You did hear me?” Gallia said with a bashful smile.

The innkeeper offered a pleasant grin in return.

“Thank you. It is very kind of you.”

He leaned on the table and assumed a quieter voice. “The man you seek is no longer in Dragon’s Snout.”

She had begun to slice the meat with the heavy knife but stopped and looked up at him. “But, how do you know the man I seek?”

“Small, like you. Dark, like you. From the southern continent, like you.”

“I told you,” Sand Flea said from the other side of the table.

“I guess there are not many of us who come this way, are there?”

“Not many.”

“Well, where has he gone?” she asked.

There was a pause before the innkeeper answered. He seemed to be evaluating whether it was acceptable to provide so much information to a stranger. But the consideration of speaking with an elder nearly always overwhelmed all other coda. “North,” he said. “He was seen a few days ago by the Tors clan with a courier named Sann-Na.”

“More north?” Sand Flea gasped, “How much is there?”

“A few days,” the innkeeper answered.

“Beyond the wind towers?” Gallia asked.

“Many do so here.”

To follow him was impractical. They must stay here and hope for his return. She looked again at the innkeeper. “Will they return here?”

“Don’t know.”

“Are there any villages further north?”

“Only the Tors clan. They skied past. Didn’t stay. Continued north.”

Gallia looked out the window at the gathering night. Darkness, cold, deep forests. “I hope he will be safe.”

“With Sann-Na, the outlander is safe.”

She took another bite of the heavy food. “Thank you. You have been very generous.”

“Pepper jam,” he said, placing the key to the room beside her plate.

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