Chapter 5 - The sodden gate
Namni
To my utter astonishment, Spinner makes a beeline for the woman and swiftly comes to rest on her shoulder. I’m so shocked that I nearly allow Jarin to slump into the mud. Of all that I’ve seen over the last several days, this single act is, bar none, the most mind-blowing.
T
he first thing I noticed was the drums. Thought it was a trick of the rain pounding on my hood, on my shoulders, on every sodden step of this wretched trail. The first few times it struck my ear, I mistakenly nabbed it as far-off thunder. I even found myself thinking that it somehow came from the emberstools themselves.
They seem to sway with a gentle rhythm that obeys the percussion. It’s just one more reason to distrust the freakish fungus, glowing and pulsating from some inner ichor, towering to peaks that, at times, can easily triple a man’s height. The Elladorans don’t seem to pay the shrooms no mind. But I’m not the first Inqoan to wish that they’d all be chopped to the ground.
Jarin may be my brother, but at this point he is little more to me than an anchor. I don’t have the strength to simply carry him. And he barely has the ability to hold himself upright.
He drools. He makes no effort to hold his head aloft. His eyes laze across nothing in particular. He hangs on me so heavy that my back screams and my knees throb. When they loaded Montal on the carriage, I had high hopes that Jarin would join him. But Zyra was obviously salty at Kamini’s insistence that we not be bound.
It seems the only “punishment” she could muster was to ensure that I still serve as Jarin’s crutch. His only contribution to this arrangement is in his dogged clutching to my neck, and the paltry force with which he can swing his good foot forward during every labored step. When the emberstools finally start to give way to the traditional muddwood jungle, I realize that our awkward, shared gait has subconsciously fallen in time with the growing and ever-present beat of those drums.
The “gates” are such in name only. The “walls” of the Diasporan encampment are more akin to barricades. Great piles of debris and forest detritus stacked, as high as imaginable, in either direction around the village. The only difference between the “gates” and the “walls” is that the “gates” are somewhat shorter and configured to be muscled aside as needed.
When I finally lay eyes on the village, it dawns on me that the music does not emanate from within the camp. Rather, the music is the camp. A great many children are perched in every nook and cranny of the bramble wall itself. And near as I can tell, damn near every one of them clings to some sort of musical device.
They cradle tiny drums, no larger than my lap. They rest beside bigger drums that would tower over them if they were stood upright. They gyrate tiny cymbals and tap on odd percussive devices I’ve never seen before. Even the few who are devoid of their own instruments hypnotically tap upon whatever semi-solid surface lies within their immediate reach.
Adults are perched atop the debris. They have spears. And blades. And what looks to be enough arrows to drop a charging parrican. But they also have their own drums. And they also mindlessly obey the rhythm that fills the sky.
The cadence would be impressive enough in its own right (and freakishly-haunting to boot), but I noticed some ways back that they are not pounding out a single arrangement. The beats drone on, repetitively, but they do change. They evolve over a long, slow cycle. And as they do, every member of the de facto symphony somehow follows along perfectly, without ever striking a stray note. There is no discernible break from one rhythm to the next. Instead, they gracefully transform – almost imperceptibly – from one pattern, to another, and then still to another.
As near I can tell, the gates are “open”. At least, some of the larger obstacles have been maneuvered off to the side. But the path leading inward is not clear.
At least two dozen guards bar entry. They stand at the ready. Men in back. A handful of them, women, decked out in more authoritative regalia, stand in front. I presume these are other captains of “the Shield”.
Nothing about this assembly matches my vision of these people. Chey’s told me many yarns of the Diasporans. She always speaks of them as… lazy. Disorganized. Feral, almost. I’d always pictured a Diasporan “guard” as, basically, just “some guy with a spear”. Nothing before us now supports such an assumption.
As if this weren’t enough to take in, their contingent is headed not by another captain. They all stand respectfully behind an ancient woman.
Her face is that of a well-worn pack. But that leather is hidden behind a brilliant assortment of hues and dyes. Her face is a tapestry – a carefully calibrated collection of eclectic patterns. But perhaps her most arresting feature is her smile.
It is broad and unyielding. It is also unmistakably genuine. It’s odd to spy anyone of her great age with a full set of teeth. It’s even rarer to find anyone – of any age – whose teeth are so brilliantly white. She’s darker than Kamini – something I hadn’t quite considered possible. Her neck and her hands are black as rotroot.
Spinner launches from Kamini’s shoulder. I expect the troops to perform their dance-of-caution, like they did so recently amongst the emberstools. But everyone maintains perfect composure.
To my utter astonishment, Spinner makes a beeline for the woman and swiftly comes to rest on her shoulder. I’m so shocked that I nearly allow Jarin to slump into the mud. Of all that I’ve seen over the last several days, this single act is, bar none, the most mind-blowing.
The woman carelessly releases a series of chuckles as Spinner proceeds to nip at her ear, her hair, even the various wrinkled features of her face. She raises her weathered hand to perform some type of gentle caress across his snout. Her gaze had repeatedly returned to Kamini as we approached, but she takes great care to address Chey first.
Leader: Chey. It’s been a long time.
Her smile somehow grows warmer.
Chey: Your hospitality honors us, Lorelei.
Holy shite. This is Lorelei! I’d pictured someone much… different. I’d pictured someone much more… well, I’m not sure exactly what I’d pictured.
Chey has stories about her. Says she’s a witch, of the highest order. Says she should not be looked upon. Says she can ensnare wary travelers with her voice. Everything Chey’s ever spoken about her paints her as unabashedly evil.
Lorelei: And you honor us with your patronage. But… you shouldn’t assume our hospitality just yet.
Chey: But… Montal? He was taken ahead of us. Is he not inside your enclave already?
Lorelei: He is. We are tending to him now.
Chey motions to Jarin… and to Kamini.
Chey: We have others in need of care. Would you deny them quarter?
Lorelei: We intend to help. But there is no root-running to be tolerated within these walls.
It is Chey’s intention to reply. But Kamini steps forward before she can formulate her response.
Kamini: We are not here on… business. We have no product. We only seek aid.
Lorelei: And yet, you’re still trafficking.
Chey, Kamini, and I have no idea what she’s talking about, but she’s motioning toward the flaccid brother clinging to my side.
Kamini: Lorelei, I assure you–
Lorelei: His wounds are dire. Some would call them excruciating. And yet… he still marches.
I’m accustomed to these kindsa interactions being forceful. Or stern. But her words are like honey. Her smile is unbroken. Her countenance is oddly… comforting.
Chey: Well, he’s not so much marching, as he’s being dragged along.
Lorelei: He’s got some impressive calves. Especially… for an Inqoan.
Chey flashes a frightening look at Kamini, but he just furrows his brow in confusion. He passes the look on to me, but I can only bring myself to shrug – or at least, as much of a shrug as I can manage with Jarin draggin me sideways.
Kamini: I’m sorry. I don’t quite understand what you’re getting at.
Lorelei places a wizened hand on Kamini’s shoulder and gazes lovingly into his eyes. Raindrops bead up on her face paint. But even amongst this deluge I feel like there’s a tear welling up somewhere deep in the corner of her craggy eye.
Lorelei: By now, you must know the one’s you’re with?
Kamini can’t bring himself to return her gaze. At this moment, he’s every bit a 14-year-old. Despite her overflowing warmth, I almost feel bad for him.
Lorelei: You know that I won’t dishonor your colleague by stripping his longboots.
For the next several moments, I swear that I can hear every single raindrop that falls within a fifty-meter radius.
Chey: We are here in peace.
Lorelei: I’m sure you are. Today. But I leave it to you to deal with your colleague. Or we will leave you here. At the gates. In pieces.
Chey can’t hide an expression that I have rarely seen on her. Confusion. There is a second emotion lurking barely under her features. Frustration.
It’s an emotion that she’s furiously directing at Kamini. He knows what her attention means. It sparks a rising anger in him. When the tension finally snaps deep within his belly, he turns to me with fire in his eyes.
Kamini: Set him down.
The command is easy to obey. Jarin can barely qualify as “upright” anyway. Kamini walks to me with a simmering anger.
Kamini: Loosen the boot.
I’m not sure the extent to which Jarin even knows where he is right now. He stares at the watery sky like he’s absorbing a vision of some sort. He makes no attempt to loosen his attire. But the command wasn’t directed at him. It was directed at me. With Kamini glowering over me, I kneel on the boggy path and desperately flail at the straps on Jarin’s boot.
Now one does not simply “remove” a longboot. I’m pretty sure that most of my kinfolk don’t remove them to fuck. It’s a sign of vulnerability. Under someone else’s command, it’s a sign of weakness. It’d be like asking the Sontsu to remove their masks.
Not that I’m worried about protocol at this point. Truth be told, I’m damn near scared. Not really sure why this task has to fall on me. But everyone else stares at me with hostile anxiousness. I’d be more comfortable if they’d asked me to separate Jarin’s head from his shoulders.
Jarin’s got some kinda fucking affinity for buckles. His jerkin. His pack. Every damn thing on him’s got buckles that seem to serve no purpose but to buttress other buckles. And his longboots are no exception.
They’re crafted from solid pieces of grey-green parrican hide. Tough as nails. Thick as bloodwood bark. And tighter than my sphincter in the pleasure house. I’m fumbling with every damn buckle.
The hide is slick when waterlogged. The buckles themselves are nearly rusted shut. I wish that Kamini couldn’t see my fingers – shaking something fierce. I can feel him staring down on me, and it only amplifies the spasms that are jumpin through my arms.
Kamini: Goddamnit. Let me do it.
I wasn’t particularly in his way. But he shoves me aside regardless. My arse plops in the spongy undergrowth and for the first time, I’m strangely aware that my backside wasn’t previously all that wet.
I get an odd sense of relief when I see Kamini similarly struggling with the over-rigging of Jarin’s longboot. If he’da just reached down and loosed it with a few effortless pulls, it woulda only served to heighten my discomfort. Nevertheless, his powerful hands are more adept to the task than mine, and within another minute or so, the top of Jarin’s boot lolls outward, no longer strapped tightly to his leg.
I don’t immediately look inside Jarin’s opened longboot. I watch Kamini. And his expression tells me all I need to know.
He drops his head and stares at the grime below our feet (and below my arse). He slowly shakes head. With a few quick pulls, he extracts the booty stowed inside Jarin’s footwear and stands to display it to Lorelei.
There are two roots. Long. Thick. Encased in the chalky clay coating that preserves their potency. The casing on one of them is cracked and crumbled… because Jarin’s been using it. Kamini tosses them on the ground between him and Lorelei. He is forlorn.
Kamini: I’m… sorry. I didn’t know.
Lorelei: Finish the job, child.
I’m embarrassed for Kamini. Her words spark a momentary disarray in his expression. It’s the expression of someone who still doesn’t completely “get it”. But to his credit, it don’t take him long.
He kneels back down and repeats the process on Jarin’s other longboot. This takes longer. He’s trying to be gentler. This is, after all, the same boot through which two arrows were lodged. It’s the same longboot whose openings are now stuffed with the remnants of the masticated ottnet.
The boot is also far tighter. Because Jarin’s leg has swollen to nearly twice its original size. But at this point, there is no degree of mercy that is going to stay Kamini’s hand. Through a series of wince-worthy groans and a single holler from Jarin, Kamini eventually duplicates the feat. When he does, he discovers two more wyndleroots, previously crammed tightly against Jarin’s calf.
The roots, still clinging to their chalky casing, are arrayed on the waterlogged soil. Four of them in total. Jarin is nominally “awake” – but he’s completely oblivious to the proceedings.
Kamini: I’m so sorry. You have to believe me.
Lorelei: Child, I have always believed you. The question is: Can I trust you?
Kamini: Should I… well, strip him down?
That smile. It hasn’t left her face. And it’s as sincere as it was when first we approached her.
Lorelei: I’m not interested in his dignity. You got it all.
How does she know that? Do I even want to know how she knows that? I don’t think so. She motions to Zyra.
Lorelei: You’ve done well. Now get that boy a stretcher. We need to get him inside right away.
Zyra is half self-satisfied smugness, half exasperation. She took some kind of personal joy in the discovery of Jarin’s contraband. But she’s still annoyed that we won’t just be left to expire under the emberstools.
Zyra: Where should I take him?
Lorelei: Bring him to Manoi. She’ll need to clean his wounds before we can proceed.
Despite her hospitality, those words send an involuntary shiver down my spine. I know that he’s gotta get those wounds properly cleaned. It’s the right thing to do. It’s the necessary thing to do. But I’m also old enough to know that the process will be torturous.
I extract my arse from the mud with a suction-breaking thwup. The next several minutes are a flurry of activity.
Zyra’s men scurry to fulfill her reluctant commands. The “welcoming” party, previously barring passage to the village, filters off to either side of the open gate. Some of them have drifted back into the enclave.
Lorelei is generally silent, but she watches the activity around her with an attentive eye. When the moment finally arrives for them to lift Jarin and ferry him inside, an unexpected wave of anguish and sadness washes over me.
Me: Miss, umm… Miss Lorelei?
My words (thankfully) do nothing to slow the progress of the men with the stretcher. They waste no time in rushing my brother to his proposed treatment. Everyone else stops moving completely. Even Lorelei looks surprised (albeit, still comforting) at the sound of my words.
I’m instantly self-conscious at the fact that my simple interjection grabbed everyone’s attention. But it’s too late to take it back.
Lorelei: Yes, Namni?
I don’t remember anyone introducing me. Her use of my name is more-than-a-little jarring. But I’ll have to ponder that mystery later.
Me: Jarin’s not… well, he’s not… bad.
Lorelei: Of course not. Did someone say that he was?
Me: Well, you know… the whole thing with the roots. And, well, I know it don’t really look right. But he’s my brother. And, well… he’s not a bad person.
She flashes her surprisingly-white teeth at me and her face lights up like a cozy, comforting campfire.
Lorelei: Child, I have no doubt your brother’s a fine fellow.
It’s hard to explain just how much tension her words release from my shoulders. Tension I hadn’t even realized was there. It’s like when the bottonflies suddenly stop buzzing, and you hadn’t even realized they were droning on – until they’ve stopped.
Lorelei: Your brother’s not bad. He’s just stupid. But the good news is that stupidity is a treatable illness.
She winks at me as she says this. All the warmth from her previous statement drains out of my body. She’s so comforting. So assuring. But I’m not sure if she just insulted Jarin (or me), or whether she meant it as some kind of sideways reassurance. I doubt I’ll ever really know.
Chey: I trust you’ll be caring for Kamini here, as well?
Lorelei: We have always cared for Kamini.
Chey bows in an ostentatious manner.
Chey: Then I’ll be taking my leave. I can scarcely relay the depth of my gratitude. Your kindness will not be forgotten.
Kamini: What?! Where are you going??
Chey: I’m not injured. And this is no place for me.
Kamini: But… what will you do?
Chey: Someone has to report back to the Collective.
Lorelei: But surely, we could dry your boots and fill your belly before you leave?
Chey: I’m grateful for the offer. I truly am. But I have provisions. And this whole episode will require some… navigating back in Despac.
Kamini: Are you coming back? Should we wait for you?
Chey: You and the rest of the boys are gonna be laid up for a good bit. I need to make sure you’re not slaughtered as soon as you step foot out of the Manderlands. Do not leave until I’ve sent word.
Kamini’s mildly shocked by her direction, but he dares not challenge it.
Kamini: Understood.
And just like that… Chey’s gone. She walks off with such authority that I can barely figure why I thought she’d be staying. Kamini and I watch after her as she disappears back down the trail, but no one else gives her a second thought.
Lorelei: You need some attention as well.
Kamini seems almost put off by her acknowledgment.
Kamini: I’ll be fine. It’s Montal and Jarin that I’m worried about.
Lorelei: It’s not either/or, Kamini.
Kamini: Huh? What do you mean?
Lorelei: You don’t have to choose between them or you.
He stands before her for an uncomfortable minute. I can’t fathom what’s on his mind. But something about her words is painfully lodged in the front of his brain. I don’t know how long he might have stood like that, but she surprisingly turns her attention to me.
Lorelei: You must be hungry.
I have never heard a magic spell half as powerful as those words. When’s the last time I ate? Anything? We were in those fucking cages for days. And yet, I’d barely thought about food at all over the last 48 hours. But those words… just hearing them gets my saliva flowing. My stomach churning. I’m not hungry. I’m ridiculously famished. The nodding of my head is driven by some previously-unknown wellspring of adrenaline.
Lorelei: Well then, let’s get you something to eat.
As we make our way to the gate, that nagging anxiety suddenly springs back into my mind.
Me: Ma’am? Miss Lorelei?
She halts her addled gait and puts her hand back on my shoulder.
Lorelei: What is it?
Me: Montal… he got here a bit before us?
Lorelei: He did.
Me: And is he, well… do you think he’ll make it?
Lorelei: Make it where, child?
Me: You know, like… will he survive?
She unleashes a laugh that brightens every nook of the soaked environment. It’s a hearty laugh borne from the diaphragm.
Lorelei: Oh, heavens. That’s hard to say.
Me: Well, do you think–
Lorelei: But if I had to bet, I’d put my money on him being very dead. Very soon.
She beams over me as though she’d just told me the most heartwarming secret of life. I… don’t even know what to say. I know I’m standing here. Completely still. But this impedes her not. She applies a gentle pull on my shoulder and motions inside the enclave.
Lorelei: I think you need a cookie.
Kamini and I walk beside her. It doesn’t feel as though there’s really any alternative. But I’m… numb. I’m walking. But I can’t feel my legs. Or any other part of me for that matter. It’s like I’m being controlled by something outside me. As I step into the village for the first time, she leans over and whispers in my ear.
Lorelei: But here’s the good news. If he does survive, the Montal you previously knew will have some new – and very… interesting – abilities.
The three of us just keep strolling along. I think I’m going to be sick. I think I also need a cookie.
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