Prophecy's Children: Chapter Two

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The first sun set as Merrus came within view of Middert. For a moment he stood outside the village, nervous to leave the bank of the familiar stream, the feeling of cool mud squelching beneath his bare feet and the taste of the earthy, watery smells that rose from it. He had never been to Middert alone before, only with his father, and he asked himself once again if he was doing the right thing. He looked back the way he came, the motion causing the angry, deep purple bruise high on his ribcage to throb, a painful reminder.

Yes, he was doing the right thing. He shouldered the reed bag he carried.

Several resolute steps later brought him into the village proper, where the first living creature he saw was a merchant closing up his shop for the day. Merrus headed toward him, hoping the human male could help him.

“Excuse me, sir,” said Merrus.

The male turned. His hair was dark, short, and messy, the tips turning silver. He was probably in his forties or perhaps older; Merrus never could tell with humans. “A salkiy!” the merchant exclaimed. “It’s a little late for trading, don’t you think? All the merchants are at the tavern.” He pointed down the central road of the village.

“I need directions,” said Merrus. He spoke in the common merchant tongue, the one standard language that both humans and salkiys used.

“A salkiy, leaving his village?” Now the merchant was laughing a little, and Merrus frowned. “Well, you see something new everyday. Where do you need directions to?”

“The mountains,” said Merrus, placing two fingertips directly beneath his right ear to stress the importance of his inquiry.

The merchant laughed harder. “And which ones would you be talking about?”

“Um,” said Merrus, puzzled. “The mountains. Up north.” There were no mountains anywhere else, were there? Merrus wasn’t sure if it was he or the merchant who was stupid.

“A salkiy leaving his village and going as far away as that?” the merchant said. “Unbelievable! Well, I don’t go up that way myself. I’d say if you want to see the mountains in the north you need to go north, but if you’re looking for specifics, I think there’s some in the tavern who’ve been there.” He pointed the way again, which was unnecessary considering Middert consisted of exactly one row of public buildings, all lined up next to each other.

“Thank you,” said Merrus, hunching over and walking away from the laughing merchant as quickly as he could. Humans were too loud for his comfort.

The tavern sat in the middle of the row of small wooden buildings and seemed more well-kept than most of the rest of the village. Even outside, walking along the well-worn dirt road, his feet stirring up dust particles that flashed in the late afternoon light and tickled his nose, Merrus could hear loud, terrible noises coming from inside, the yells and thumps of drunken humans and the shrill plinking sound of some out of tune instrument. The last thing Merrus wanted was to go in there, but if he wanted directions to the mountains he would have to.

Inside was just as bad as he had imagined. The shades were drawn against the setting sun and fire lamps were already burning, casting a sickly yellow and oppressive glow over everything. There were too many humans, an impossible number that shouldn’t have been able to fit into the room. Every seat was taken and those who didn’t have one stood in groups, either at the bar or off in the corners of the room where the lamplight didn’t quite reach. The horrible music was coming from some kind of wooden device being played by a spindly male running his fingers up and down a row of white bars displayed in front of him like a table. Merrus shied away from that and the shadows, and approached the front bar, clutching his reed bag close.

Several customers sat there, though all but two moved when Merrus approached, giving him a wary look. Merrus ignored them. His father had always dealt with local merchants when he came to Middert to trade, and Merrus knew it was because the foreign ones didn’t trust salkiys. The two remaining patrons, nursing vile-looking concoctions, didn’t spare him a glance. Merrus wondered how he was going to find a merchant who had been to the mountains. He didn’t want to speak up or attract too much attention to himself.

A rough-looking male with a scar under one eye had been serving drinks, though now that most of his patrons had grabbed their glasses and walked away he was instead giving Merrus a skeptical look. “What are you doing here, salkiy?” he said, not unkindly. “I didn’t think your kind had much to do with the hard spirits. If you want a drink, I don’t barter; it’s money or nothing around here.”

"No," said Merrus, swallowing hard and trying to calm his rapid heartbeat. He had no money, and he didn’t think he wanted to ingest anything that came from this place. “I need directions.”

“Where?”

“The mountains. Up north. Do you know how to get there?” He pressed two fingertips beneath his right ear, shifting his reed bag in his arms.

“I do,” one of the male patrons at the counter said. He didn’t look at Merrus, but sat slouched over, staring into his drink. His face was pockmarked and grizzled with stubble. Merrus tried not to look at the imperfections marring the human’s skin. The male behind the bar snorted and retreated to the other end, where he started mopping up some spilled liquid.

“Ye wanna be goin’ there fer?” the male patron continued, and Merrus realized he had asked a question. His accent was unlike anything Merrus had ever heard, and his words were slurred with alcohol.

“I just want to go there.”

“Ye don’ wanna be goin’ there,” said the male, and he fell silent, as if that ended the matter.

“Yes, I do.”

“No, ye don’. No’ north o’ here. I been there. There’s things in the moun’ains.”

“What kinds of things?” asked Merrus.

“Demons,” said the male. “Ghos’s.”

Merrus was having trouble following the male’s slurred words, but at the mention of demons he made a face. “Human superstitions,” he said, more disdainfully than he meant to sound.

The second male at the bar suddenly laughed. He seemed to be much healthier, younger, and not as drunk as his companion. “Well, he told you, Kurnin! Haven’t I been saying your ghost stories don’t scare nobody?” He turned to Merrus. “I don’t believe in that stuff, either, you know. But he’s right in one way. There’re things in the mountains, and they’re a lot more dangerous than imaginary demons and ghosts, I’ll tell you.”

“What things?” said Merrus, getting frustrated. All he wanted was directions and then to leave this human place behind forever. He rubbed his thumb along his left palm, hoping this would encourage the human to get to the point.

“Barbarians,” said the younger male. “The Cottocks live up there, you know. It’s said they eat other humans.” He surveyed Merrus. “And they prob’ly wouldn’t say no to salkiy, either.”

Merrus was hardly concerned about human barbarians. “Is that all?”

“No,” said the younger male. “There’s ekalaps, too.”

A chill went through Merrus’s body. Ekalaps. He knew his parents had once lived in the mountains, which was one of the reasons he wanted to go there, though they had never mentioned ekalaps. But why would they? He was stupid not to have realized the ekalaps probably lived there, too.

Merrus had been raised on the romantic stories his father told of the mountains. The tales never included his parents’ past, because that was one subject they would not speak of, but what Merrus’s father had told him was of the beauty of the mountains, tree-covered slopes giving way to scrubby plants and then to bare rock, of the mountaintops that were eternally covered with snow and that rose as high as the sky itself, disappearing into the clouds. And Merrus had listened breathlessly, blue eyes the color of the evening sky at dusk open wide, his hands pulling anxiously at the tousled black hair that curled at the ends during particularly exciting parts, his features so unlike the fairer salkiy pair that had raised him.

But now, his desire to see the mountains faded to nothing. He would not go where ekalaps lived.

The younger male must have seen some conflicting emotion on Merrus’s face, for he said, “I could tell you how to get anywhere else on the continent. You looking for work or anything?”

“No,” said Merrus, snapping back to his present. It was difficult to force words through his disappointment. “Though I wouldn’t refuse it. I just want to get away from here.” He kept his hands still, because he didn’t want the humans to know how desperate he was. It was unusual for salkiys to travel far from their home village, and the humans probably knew that. They might ask questions.

There was silence for a moment, and the younger male looked like he wanted to ask something. Merrus braced himself for the inevitable questions.

But before any came the older male, whom the younger had called Kurnin, spoke up. “Shaharda.”

“What?” Merrus couldn’t make any sense out the sounds that had come from Kurnin’s mouth.

“He means Jaharta,” said the younger male, carefully pronouncing the name. “It’s the capitol of Ceenta Vowei. Why you want to send him there, Kurn?”

“Shus’ come from there. I be hearin’ the Lord Councilor hisself lookin’ fer a salkiy.”

“Why?” asked Merrus, interested. He had never heard of Jaharta, and had no idea what a Lord Councilor was, but he knew Ceenta Vowei was very far away from his village.

“Don’ know,” said Kurnin. “Didn’ ask. Didn’ think I be findin’ a salkiy lookin’ fer work.” He slowly turned his head to look at Merrus for the first time. “You don’ of’en find salkiys wan’in’ to leave Okkland, though you already know tha’.” He shrugged. “‘Course, you don’ of’en get Lord Councilors lookin’ fer salkiys, bu’ this won’ be the firs’ ‘ime as one of them’s been there, either.”

The jumble of words and the effort of understanding them made Merrus’s head spin. “Could you tell me how to get there?” he asked, hoping to stress the point.

The younger male spoke again. “I’ll do you one better. I’ll take you as far as Lake Armand. Jaharta’s maybe two, three days walk from there.”

“You’ll take me?” said Merrus. “I don’t have anything to give you in payment.” He looked down at his bag. Some humans would take goods in lieu of money, but all he had with him were his few personal possessions. No human would be interested in his few articles of clothing or a bit of bread. He carried perhaps one thing of value, a small pyramid made of blue glass that his father had found for him in a human marketplace many years ago, but he didn’t want to give that away. It was just a tiny thing and probably not worth much, but his entire life it had been his and his alone, and it was his most prized possession.

The younger male shook his head. “Don’t worry about nothing like that. Your company is payment enough. It’s a lonely trip to Jaharta and the horses usually don’t talk back.” He grinned suddenly. “If they do, you prob’ly been drinking too much of this stuff.” He indicated his glass and laughed at his own joke.

Merrus smiled wanly.

“Anyway,” said the male, sobering, “I’m leaving with the first sun tomorrow if you really want a ride. I want to catch the Market Day Fairs before they’re over.”

“No use goin’ there,” grumbled Kurnin.

“Your problem is you shoulda stopped at Armand,” argued the younger male. “There’s no profit to be had in Jaharta, not anymore.”

Merrus looked from one to the other, baffled. He coughed uncomfortably.

“Ah!” said the younger male. “So will you be joining me?”

“It’s all right that there’s no payment?” Merrus asked, just to be sure. He probably wasn’t ingratiating himself with the male by being so indecisive, but all of his past experiences with humans, which admittedly wasn’t much, told him that this was very unusual.

“I promise!” said the male, laughing. “I ain’t gonna cheat you, I swear. Not all us merchants set out to find a profit in everything.” He indicated Kurnin with broadly exaggerated pointing, prompting the older male to snort derisively, finish what remained in his glass in one gulp, and call the bartender for more.

“He’s sweet, really,” said the younger male. He beamed at Merrus. “So what do you say?”

“All right,” said Merrus, crossing his left arm over his chest and resting his hand on his right shoulder, signaling his agreement. He tried not to grimace as his bruise gave another angry twinge at the movement.

“Traveling company!” cried the man, and he stuck out a hand. “Name’s Edward. Merchant, though I already gave that away, didn’t I? Originally from Kandel, but I’ve been skulking around Okkland a few years now.”

A Kandelian. Merrus had never met a human who hailed from the opposite end of the continent. He knew what the hand meant, though, from accompanying his father on trading trips to Middert. It was a human sign used as a greeting or a farewell, and was more often offered when a trade was successful than when it wasn’t. He shook the hand, finally allowing himself a small smile.

“You have a place to stay?” asked Edward.

“Oh,” said Merrus. “Yes. I’ll just sleep in the forest tonight.”

Edward looked for a moment like he was going to argue, then thought better of it. “Right,” he said cheerfully. “How ‘bout we meet here in the morning? First sunrise, mind you.”

“Yes,” said Merrus. He wasn’t sure there was anything more to say, so he bid both merchants a good night and gladly left the noisy tavern.

He went back to the stream and walked along it for awhile, following its twisting course. When he had reached what he considered a comfortable distance from the village so that he wouldn’t be disturbed by any humans wandering around, he slid down into the stream bed, which this time of year was only mud and a small trickle of murky water flowing through the middle. Finding a good-sized hollow in the bank that had been carved out by heavier water flow, he opened his bag and removed a simple mat made of intertwined river reeds and laid it flat before sitting down on it. He removed his cloak and the itchy wool shirt he had borrowed from his father. Merrus didn’t usually wear shirts, but his father always did when he went to Middert to trade with humans. The humans liked it when salkiys dressed like them. The shirt, however, was heavier than the hot weather warranted and Merrus was glad to take it off.

He spared a moment to examine his bruises, prodding them gingerly with his fingers. They looked terrible, especially the one over his ribcage that hurt so much, but there didn’t seem to be any broken bones. Twice Merrus had received a beating severe enough to break a rib, and thankfully the pain he felt now was nothing compared to that. The other bruise, the one on his shoulder, was hardly worth worrying about. Both would fully heal in a few days’ time, he knew.

Merrus reached into his bag again, felt around, and removed some bread and a handful of white nuts. He stared at them, momentarily paralyzed with sadness and longing. His mother had packed this food for him, earlier that day, her eyes downcast with sorrow. Her grief and guilt had radiated from her in heavy waves, and Merrus had almost decided to stay. By leaving he was punishing no one but his family, the only ones who had ever truly cared about him, and that didn’t seem fair. But he had no other choice, because he feared one day he would be hurt so badly that he wouldn’t recover, and he knew that even then the rest of the village would turn a blind eye. Merrus knew he was cursed and perhaps it would have been better had he never been born, but he wasn’t particularly eager to lose his life.

His parents loved him, he knew that. But they also looked the other way, preferring to believe their son was merely clumsy. They had never wanted to hear anything different, and they had thoroughly convinced themselves of their own version of the truth. Merrus had seen that in his mother’s eyes when he had told her he was leaving the village. Confusion, heartbreak, disbelief that he was able to leave behind the home he had known all his life. That he wanted to travel, like one of the human merchants. That maybe the others in the village were right and that he didn’t have a proper salkiy sense of home, and no gratitude or love toward the ones who had chosen to give him that home.

Anger gripped him suddenly, though anger at himself, his parents, his real father, or the world in general he didn’t know. He shoved the nuts back into the bag, down into the very bottom, so that they wouldn’t conjure up any more memories. He was grateful. He did care. His mother knew he cared, because he had made a real promise, one that he would carry with him until it was fulfilled or he was dead, that he would see her again. There was a sore spot in the middle of his chest, where he had pressed his thumb as hard as he could, so that she would understand how sincere he was. But he was as different from them as he was the same, and there was nothing he could do about that.

Banishing the maudlin thoughts from his mind, he finished his bread and laid down on the mat, hoping to find a little sleep before he left his old life behind for good.

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