Chapter 7 - Swamp cookies
Namni
When the beats, and the rhythms, and the cymbals, and the makeshift percussion instruments that are ubiquitous throughout the village just stop, well… it fosters a very odd sensation indeed.
A
t this point, I’m almost certain that Lorelei is actually made of cookies. They litter her household. A plate of them is never far from her reach. Her pockets harbor an endless supply. Even when I find no evidence that she’s actually delved into a pocket, she materializes them effortlessly.
She snatches them from the air. She produces them at the oddest times. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that she can simply will them into existence. Maybe this is the sorcery Chey spoke of? Maybe there’s evil in those convenient little morsels?
I long ago stopped stressing over their origin or their nature. If those sweet biscuits of happiness are wrong, then my allegiance to the dark arts is already firmly cemented. There are blue ones. And red ones. And green ones. And ones with fanciful shapes on’em. But they all have one thing in common: they’re all insanely delicious.
When she first started handing them to me, I could almost hear my brothers’ judgment. Jarin’d probably smack’em right outta my hand. Montal’s got a lighter sense about him. He’d laugh dismissively. Probably toss a few insults my way.
Even if they let me be, I’m sure they’d never let one pass their own lips. And who could blame’em? I mean, what’s an Inqoan got to do with bread anyway? There are no cookies to be found in the Aequin. I’ve indulged in many feasts back in Despac where there wasn’t a single grain to be found.
But for every imagined slight I can hear them tossing my way, an inner voice tells them to shut the fuck up. These things are damn tasty. And if they wouldn’t understand that then, well, it’s their loss.
I was around her a good number of days afore I finally realized that there’s a “language” to her cookies. They’re like a universal symbol that can take on all manner of meanings, based on context. Kinda like… a wink. Or a nod. Or a knowing glance.
I don’t pretend to always catch her drift. Sometimes I’m more than happy just to mash’em in my teeth, savoring that sugary goodness afore it slides down my throat. But other times, I start to feel the deeper meaning attached.
There’s the that will be all now cookie. And the maybe you should just listen to your elders cookie. And a few times I’ve gotten wise to the this will all make sense later cookie. But the glorious truth is that, even when I’m clueless as to any higher meaning, it does nothing to diminish the joy of those delectable treats.
I’ve somehow been afforded the honor of staying with Lorelei. At first, I assumed we’d all share this lot. But Kamini, well… he keeps his own quarter. Somewhere.
As for Jarin and Montal, I haven’t seen them since we parted ways outside the gates. Every morning, as we dawdle over the day’s breakfast, I ask Lorelei how Jarin and Montal are getting along. I ask if I might see them today. Every morning, she pushes another cookie in my direction. And another day slides by.
Not that cookies are the only sustenance around here. I’ve seen dozens of dishes that I can scarcely identify. Most of them smell awful. And taste worse. I’d be quite content to subsist on nothing but those heavenly cookies. But Lorelei seems to have some vested interest in assuring that my diet’s a little more… balanced.
I have, occasionally, been offered a few plates of fish. The sight of it made my heart soar, but my enthusiasm was quickly doused. They cook everything around here. The breads. The meats. The veggies. Makes no difference. They subject it all to the same, searing blasphemy.
I don’t much care how they choose to prepare most of this slop. But the fish?? C’mon! Why would you ruin a perfectly-good slimer, or a succulent crustacean, by slaying it, then roasting it, over some infernal fire - for hours? It’s a goddamn tragedy. Enough to make any self-respecting Inqoan shed a hungry tear.
Of course, there ain’t much meat to speak of in the camp. I can tell they’re reachin for some kinda variety. But if you stare closely enough at most of the dishes, it’s nearly all comprised of well-disguised strongleroot.
Hell, afore we got here, I didn’t even realize that strongleroot was edible. After many days by Lorelei’s side, I’m still not convinced.
They grind it into some kinda grain-like powder. Or they boil it till it’s barely chewable. They sprinkle all kindsa wannabe spices on top of it. But no matter how they doctor it up, it’s still strongleroot. It’s bitter. If they don’t grind it up, it’s stringy. And I only choke it down during those rare periods when Lorelei’s gotten stingy with the cookies.
The Diasporans stare at me somethin fierce. The adults don’t pay me too much mind. It’s pretty obvious that they don’t like me, but they aren’t inclined to say much as long as Lorelei’s within earshot. But the children…
Doesn’t really matter what age they are. None of’em seem to have much concept of “personal space”. Some keep a healthy distance – like I’m gonna bite’em if they wander too close. Still others come right up to my face. They poke me. Or laugh at me. With no sense of self-awareness. Of course, some of the adults display similar notions. Can’t say as it bothers me too much. But whenever it does, Lorelei slides me another cookie.
On my first day, Lorelei wakes me with an assortment of bowls. I’m pretty sure that they’re all different entrees. But they all look damn near the same. They smell similar. They look almost identical. They taste in a range from bland and unappealing, to downright revolting.
I feel kinda bad about the whole thing, cuz Lorelei keeps smiling at me and gently goading me to eat. But when I’ve choked down all that I can stomach, she just chuckles, slides me a few cookies, and then proceeds to lead me around the camp.
She’s got business to tend to. Business with everyone. Some of it’s just the kinda cordial shite that neighbors indulge in. But some of the conversations take a much more earnest tone. Not all of her friends are happy to see me in tow.
They eye me with the same caution I’ve observed from the Reapers. At several stops, I try to wander off a bit. Not to flee – just trying to afford some privacy for those discussions that are signaled by hushed tones and wary glances. But every time I do, Lorelei places a firm hand on my shoulder and keeps me close by.
The people here are… exotic. I’ve seen plenty of Elladorans. And I’ve spied more than a few Diasporans afore – but always from a distance. Always flitting away, lest our crew gets a better look at’em. Now, I’ve got my first real chance to see them.
Their clothes are distinctly “natural”. It don’t take much inspection to recognize the original source materials. And those materials are all hewn from the living land itself.
Regal grasses woven into flowing capes. Hides that still boast the feet, tails, and other ephemera of the beasts from which they were harvested. Bones carved into intricate shapes. Even the “thread” is a stone’s throw from its original sinew. But their clothing is not what I had emblazoned in my mind.
Garments, that Chey would casually dismiss as “primitive”, betray a masterful craftsmanship upon closer viewing. The adornments she so frequently classifies as “trinkets” are, in reality, spectacular examples of (Dare I say?) art. There is nothing “casual” about these people or their presentation.
Not that I spend too much time spying their clothing. There is far too much about their appearance to catch the eye. They all display a wondrous array of face paints. The elders. The merchants. The tradeswomen. The children. Even the infants. It don’t take me long to gather that a Diasporan's concept of “nudity” would only properly apply to those who are compelled to remove their face paint.
They ooze a casualness that makes me realize that their patterns are as much a part of their “clothing” as their longboots. Or their undergarments. And those patterns can be dazzling to my untrained eye.
Rich hues such as I’d never imagined. Some aren’t even “colors” at all – pearlescent seas that dance over their features like a kaleidoscope, phosphorescent dyes that lend them a frightening air in the night, strange configurations that seem to evoke deeper symbols and yet, they outline nothing in particular.
Everything in the camp is designed with mobility – or even, evacuation – in mind. I’m pretty sure this enclave’s been here a good while – years, even. But it’s clear that everything but the outer walls could be packed up and scuttled away at a moment’s notice.
The “structures” are all grand tents. Draped in robust hides that still bear folding marks – creases that tell a deeper history of setup, breakdown, and setup again. Vendor stands are supported by broad and well-crafted wooden wheels – even if some of those of wheels have come to rest a half meter into the bog water. Personal belongings, when not carried on one’s person, are carefully stowed in chests that are crafted of uniform and interlocking shapes, lest they need to be stacked upon carts in preparation for a desperate flight.
As we traverse the raised walkways, the music I experienced amongst the emberstools never wanes. Craftswomen tap out the beats as they toil over their work. Children somehow play in the ever-present rhythms. Their imaginary dramas do nothing to impede their contributions to the continual patter. As Lorelei makes her rounds, most of her acquaintances subconsciously keep time throughout the conversations, as though the beats are as natural – and as effortless – as breathing.
On day two, Lorelei startles me from sleep. There is nothing to separate her movements from those of the previous day. But while it’s hard to mistake her ancient form for anyone else, it takes my groggy eyes a moment to realize that she is the same Lorelei I’m coming to know. For her face is entirely different – new. Yesterday’s patterns are completely replaced – by something unique, but no less wondrous. Fresh colors. Shifting patterns.
Me: Lorelei?
Her face may be “new” but her smile could identify her from across the Boundless Plain.
Lorelei: Who else would I be?
Me: I don’t know. It’s just that you’re… different.
Lorelei: I’ve been to temple. The seer gave me a new mark.
Me: Oh… sure.
Lorelei: Does this surprise you?
Me: I guess not. I just kinda assumed that those marks – your previous marks – were, well… yours.
Lorelei: They were my marks. Yesterday. This… is a new day.
Me: Does everyone do the same?
Lorelei: More or less, yes. We cleanse ourselves, then we commune with the seer. She shows us the way. She speaks the ancients’ words upon our faces. We emerge… restored. With a new mission. And a new message.
I don’t know why this intrigues me, but it does.
Lorelei: Would you like to go with me tomorrow?
Me: To where?
Lorelei: To the seer, of course.
Me: Is that even allowed?
She chuckles and runs her leathery fingers through my long white hair. I hate when anyone touches my hair. I’ve clocked muddrats for far less. But somehow, her doing it now doesn’t bother me so much. I wouldn’t much care for anyone else to see her doing it, but I kinda wish she’d continue while there’s no one else around to witness the act.
Lorelei: You’re my guest, Namni. You’re welcome where I’m welcome.
Me: Some of the townsfolk don’t seem to share that sentiment.
Lorelei: Some of the townsfolk don’t have any say in the matter.
I ponder her words for a good minute while she continues messing with my hair.
Me: If it’s all the same to you, I don’t think I’d feel quite right about it. Like, in your temple and all.
She extracts her hand from my hair and I wonder if maybe I shoulda taken her up on the offer. But there is no remorse in her voice. She’s as comforting as ever.
Lorelei: As you wish.
An odd thought invades my mind. I’ve no intention to share it, but it must’ve burst through my features and she’s caught my drift.
Lorelei: What is it?
If I shook my head, or asked her to simply leave it alone, I’ve no doubt she would. But questions somehow feel safer when posed to her, so I charge ahead.
Me: Did Kamini… visit the seer?
Lorelei: Today?
Me: No, I mean… when he was younger. When he lived here.
Lorelei: Yes, he used to. Every day. He and I went before breakfast.
Me: And he wore the face paint?
She smiles anew, but I’m starting to realize that her smiles, like her treats, carry their own kind of fluid language. There are smiles of joy. And pity. Smiles of… condescension. Even smiles of disdain.
Those smiles are not hidden by her face paint or her cavernous wrinkles. They work in concert with her adornments and the rest of her weathered features. They are a careful symphony of complex emotion. They portray a depth of feeling that I’d have barely thought possible just a few days ago. And while I’m sure that the mystery of her smiles is far from being solved, the careful grin stretching over her face now evokes a keen sense of… wistfulness. And loss.
Lorelei: Kamini was one of us. He held our ways. We loved him as our own.
And just like that, I wish I hadn’t asked at all. But even if she is the sorceress of Chey’s tales, she’s given me no clue as to how past words can be retrieved. I’m certain this is the first time I’ve ever considered a word as a “thing” – as something material. Something permanent. Something that, once released, can never be erased. But I feel that way now, about my careless question.
As the days progress, I come to recognize a handful of her visitors. Some are fellow elders. Some are messengers from the Shield. But the ones that pique my interest are the Coven.
I didn’t name them such. Actually, I can’t remember whom I first heard refer to them by that name. But I do know that, the first time it hit my ears, my spine tingled and my jaw stiffened. They are witches! Chey’s tales were true! But… those tales were not true. Or at least, the “Coven” is no confirmation of witchcraft. Instead, it’s the name that they’ve bestowed upon their own doctors.
The doctors – the Coven – they intrude upon Lorelei’s tent at random intervals. I’m not sure if she has actually seen Jarin or Montal since we arrived, but every aspect of their care seems to be coordinated through her.
Sometimes they come to deliver naught but brief updates which I strain to hear from across the room. At other times, Lorelei issues them firm instructions. She calls for mushrooms and mosses, poultices and procedures. They always leave with a clear sense of duty and timeliness.
On the twelfth day, an animated discussion ensues. In her normal manner, Lorelei makes no attempt to muffle her voice. But the Coven’s representatives are obviously keen to keep their words from me. When they leave, I can’t constrain my curiosity.
Me: How are they?
Her words are uncharacteristically cautious.
Lorelei: They are… progressing.
Me: Can they speak?
Lorelei: Jarin is painfully aware of his surroundings.
Me: And Montal? Is he awake?
Lorelei: Montal is… conscious.
Me: Can I see them? Just to visit? For a moment.
She slides me a cookie and grins as she shakes her head. I pretty much knew the answer would be “no”. I also pretty much knew that my query would be misdirected with a cookie. I’m not sure if I should be ashamed of that acknowledgment.
On most days, she finds some excuse to welcome a gaggle of random children into our tent. (I don’t suppose it’s proper to really call it “our” tent. But for the time being, I got no place else to be, so I guess it’s not too presumptuous to call it “our” tent.) It’s apparent that this is part of some longstanding ritual.
It’s easily the most joyous event of her day. She hugs them. She messes with the thick tussle of their bushy hair. She touches up their face paint – during those rare moments when she can actually get any of them to stand still. She showers them with an ostentatious wealth of cookies.
Every time she does so, I choke down a nasty emotion within me. Seeing the treasures wasted on these brats wells up a mean streak in me that I scarce not let escape to my face. Those are my goddamn cookies! They’re not guests! I’m the guest! So stop scarfing down my fucking cookies!
At this point, the cycle’s become fairly predictable. The muddrats flow into our tent. She wastes all the tender morsels on these ungrateful juveniles. A few minutes of violent envy well up inside me, during which I focus any discipline at my disposal toward hiding my base instincts. Then, slowly, it passes.
Maybe it passes because I don’t actually see any more cookies being dispersed. Maybe it passes because my senses finally grab hold of me. After all, I am fourteen. Not four. If Montal got wind of me losin my shite – over cookies – he’d lay a switch into me.
Regardless of the reason, the emerald passion does, eventually, fade. And when it finally does, my first glance is always toward Lorelei. Did she catch my emotion? Will she judge my selfishness? As near I can tell, her smile is unyielding. She gives me no troubled glances. She says nothing during or after the episodes. But on some days, I wonder – for hours – whether she was privy to my true emotions?
While Lorelei and children seem to go together like carokins and rivers, I get the strange feeling that these daily visits are about more than Lorelei. And they’re about more than the children. Even after the cookies have (supposedly) been exhausted, she encourages the children to linger. Some of her motivation is obvious. For Lorelei never spied a child that she doesn’t desire to love upon, if only for a few moments. But at some point, I gotta wonder if the daily childcare adventure is also, somehow, tied to me.
She encourages them to bid me hello. She smiles at me gently when they want to play with me – even though I’m fucking fourteen. I mean, I ain’t played with nothin in years. But still, they orbit round me and, in some weird way, their presence in my presence seems to amplify her joy.
Most of them are a good bit younger than me. I got nothin in common with these homebodies. But letting them prod me, or offer me disgusting handfuls of old gruel, or ask me ignorant questions (Do you actually have irises?? Did your hair turn that color cuz you’re really old??) somehow sets Lorelei’s mind at ease. And the more she smiles, the more I can count on some of those cookies coming my way later.
So I humor the brats. I “talk” to them (to the extent that anyone can really “talk” to a snotnose). I let’em touch my skin. (It’s just skin, people. May be tinted a bit different than yours. But it ain’t a scientific discovery. Move along, muddrats. Move along…)
When the latest incursion has passed, we are alone in the tent, and Lorelei seems strangely comforted by the visit. I wish that I could sit back and relish in the glow that emanates from her contentment. But that mischievous spirit of curiosity won’t leave me be.
Lorelei: What’s on your mind?
Me: The children. They don’t just come here for the treats.
Lorelei: The tikes always have a dozen fanciful missions on their agenda.
Me: They’re here for you. I mean, they genuinely love you.
Lorelei: There is great love amongst all our people. Not just the children.
Me: But…
She allows me to linger on that thought for a moment before nudging me forward.
Lorelei: Yes, Namni?
Me: Well… do you have any children?
She makes no attempt to quell her hearty laughter.
Lorelei: I have hundreds of children. Kamini is but one of them.
Me: Well, yeah. I get that. But do you have any children? You know… of your own?
Her smile does not recede but her laughter tails off. She stares somewhere outside the tent, gazing far beyond the leather walls of this enclosure.
Lorelei: I’m barren.
And that tinge of remorse washes over me again. Those words – so careless. I wish I still held them in my throat. But they’re out there now. Never to be retrieved. Her “reply” is to rise, hobble across the room, and tousle my hair.
Lorelei: C’mon. The bottonflies are swarming.
Me: Huh? What does that mean?
Lorelei: It means that the dracons will be hunting them.
Me: Is that… a good thing?
She pauses to churn my question in her mind.
Lorelei: It’s a rare moment that can truly be defined as “good” or “bad”. Most moments simply are.
Me: And this… moment. The dracons hunting bottonflies. That’s a moment that's somehow important to us?
Lorelei: I should think so. It’s a thrilling sight. Tremendously entertaining.
Me: Ohhh… I thought it was something more… critical.
Lorelei: Look around you, child. There’s enough pain in these waters to swamp your mind if you let it. If you don’t take a moment to wonder at the beauty that engulfs us, there’s a terrible risk that you’ll lose sight of who you really are.
I have no idea what that means. I’m hoping that it will be followed by a chew on that lesson cookie. But none is forthcoming. Instead, she just leads me out of the tent. By the time that my head hits the pillow again, I find myself thinking that I’ll be pondering that dracon hunt for many years to come.
On the fifteenth days, the music stops. I can’t explain the extent to which those drums have already become etched deep into my mind. The first few days, they were strange. The next few days, they were pleasant. For all the days thereafter, I honestly didn’t even realize that the drums were there. But they absolutely were there. Always. Morning, noon, and night.
So when they stop. When the beats, and the rhythms, and the cymbals, and the makeshift percussion instruments that are ubiquitous throughout the village just stop, well… it fosters a very odd sensation indeed.
We’ve been walking throughout the village. Today, more so than most, I get the feeling that Lorelei’s dragged me to every Diasporan tent on the eastern half of Islegantuan. She’s having some Big Important Discussion with some Big Important Diasporan (I can almost hear Chey’s voice in my head rebutting that there’s no such thing as a “Big Important Diasporan”) when the silence crashes over us.
There are children, standing mere meters away, who, with no apparent outward sign of coordination, simply stop their droning. The gates… are silent. The music… is dead. Afore this moment, I’ve never realized just how quiet a muddwood really can be.
Everyone – and I mean, everyone – stands still. Surveying the canopy more than a hundred meters above. Eagerly monitoring the stagnant waters lazing beneath our feet. Anxiously scanning the sun-choked, overgrown skyline for any sign of distress.
Me: Lorelei, what’s going on?
Lorelei: It’s the alarm.
I’m embarrassed to admit that I stand here for several moments, straining to hear any alarm. Straining to hear anything at all.
Me: But… I don’t hear any alarm.
Lorelei: Are you alarmed?
That’s gotta be, simultaneously, the dumbest and the most astute question that’s ever hit my ears. There is no alarm. And yet, the answer to her question is so obvious that I can scarcely bring myself to speak it. She’s waits patiently on my reply. Smiling. Comforting. Yet… anxious.
Me: Well… yeah, I guess I am alarmed.
She cloaks me in a comforting smirk – an expression reserved for those rare moments when she believes that I’ve just discovered something.
Lorelei: Then I suppose… it is an alarm.
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