The Land's Whisper (4 page)

He woke in the night, in a slump on the
floor, and crawled to his pallet. The fire was cool, but his aching
bones begged for sleep, so he ignored the chill and huddled into
his blankets.

He lay awake, his mind refusing to rest. In
but a few hours, another day in Alatrice would begin.

~

“Darsey! You’re still asleep?”

Darse blinked and found himself surrounded
by light. The morning was more than upon him. He groaned and rose
to a sit. The sleepless hours of the night had stolen the fleeting
moments of the day. He scrambled to his feet.

A skinny whip of a boy peered at him with
curious jade eyes. He had ruffled copper hair, loose and worn
pants, and an old shirt that boasted at least four patches. The
boy’s angular face tilted, as if he were on the verge of speaking
but lacked the fitting words.

“Bren, could you go tend to Button and the
chickens? I’ve got to check the steel
.
” Darse spoke in a
rush, the chores for the day mounting in his mind, but then he
stopped, abruptly realizing the implications of Brenol’s presence.
“I thought you weren’t going to be here for another septspan. Did
the roofing at Carper’s not go well?” Darse scrutinized the youth
with a careful eye.

Brenol screwed his face up and thrust both
hands into his trouser pockets.

Darse raised an eyebrow, considering.

“All right,” the man finally said with
resignation. “Go. Tend. I’m already late, so it seems I have chosen
as much for the day. I’ll get to my things presently. For now, I’ll
make us coffee. You bring the milk.”

Brenol nearly yelped at the promised luxury
and zipped out the door hastily. Leisure was not a common gift; he
would do all in his power not to lose it.

Darse gathered up enough wood from his pile
for a small fire, stoked a flame to life, collected water from the
well, washed, and set a kettle to boil. He frowned, glancing at the
sun rising in her course, but knew he could not change his mind
now. He began ruminating on Brenol, but decidedly set even that
aside until the boy returned, and moved on to the task before
him.

He plucked up a tiny canvas bag from his
stores and settled himself upon the floor. The aroma of the sack
tugged at the weariness in him, and he found that its mere promise
soothed much. With an air of careful ritual, he spooned a precise
measure of dark beans into his pan and listened to the pieces click
together. Shaking the pan, he roasted the beans until they cracked
in lovely song, then tipped the dish and settled the hot contents
into the bowl of his mortar. Gently, he drove the pestle through
the beans until the sharp scent filled the air. He continued to
grind methodically, relishing the moment of relief, until the
kettle sounded.

The coffee had brewed, and Darse was
straining it with a gentle hand when Brenol returned and handed off
his pail of milk. Darse liberally scooped the thick cream from the
top into each cup, and the two settled onto the burlap straw
pillows on the wooden floor.

“The hens aren’t laying much,” Brenol said,
jutting his chin toward the basket he had collected.

“I’m not surprised.”

“Why’s that?” the boy asked.

“They haven’t been laying well for a
moon.”

“Huh,” Brenol replied. As if realizing he
had not been privy to the dealings of the homestead, he peered
about with an inquiring eye. His glance fell to the front door and
the newly painted pine. Brenol gaped indignantly. “Did they letter
you again?” he asked. “When?”

Darse took a sip and allowed the flavor to
linger on his tongue before answering. “Yes, and yesterday.”

Brenol blew air out his lips as if through a
straw. “That is the third time this orbit.”

Darse nodded, choosing not to speak.

“Why’s everyone so certain you’re a
traitor?”

Darse raised an eyebrow.

Brenol screwed his face up in anger. “But
what’ve
you
ever done?”

Darse sighed heavily. The tension he carried
was evident in his long face and sagging shoulders. “I’ve never
done anything. And that is another reason to suspect me.” He met
Brenol’s hot gaze. “Bren, I’ve never once in all my orbits left to
serve the king. I’ve never once done anything but buy a pass. And
my father paid my way through the heaviest tax orbits. And through
war. I do not see anyone here who has not faced enlistment in their
family. Except me.”

Brenol considered his words and slumped in
discontent. “But you haven’t done anything.”

Darse shrugged. “Tell me about Carper’s
roof.” He straightened his spine as the conversation shifted.

Brenol scowled. “I worked. I did full days
of labor. Sweating and slipping around up there.”

Darse peered at the boy, whose ears were
pink in shame. He waited patiently.

“Ma,” Brenol said softly, looking sadly into
his empty cup. “She came and took my wages.”

Darse winced. “And?”

“She did not buy my pass.”

The man nodded but did not react; he had not
expected it, but it was not a surprise.

“Darse, she took my money too. She took it
all—even the pouch I’d hidden in a tree. She found it all.” He
slumped down, sullen. “And I have no pass.”

“Did you ask her what she did with it?”

Brenol glowered. “You know I did. And you
know what she did. She acted as if she didn’t hear me.”

Darse shook his head morosely.
If she had
cunning, she’d just sell him off. But it isn’t that simple.

“What do you want to do?” the man finally
asked.

Brenol pouted. “What do you mean? What is
there to do? I’m off to ‘live the highest honor’ and prepare to be
the king’s man.”

“Would you like a pass?” Darse replied.

Brenol’s face loosened in sudden hope. “You
have enough to help me?”

Darse nodded. “Only by luck. I nearly gave
it to someone else.”

“I do. I do want it.” Brenol swallowed,
realizing how narrowly he had escaped. “What poor kid is going this
season?”

“Mart, Treak’s son,” Darse said sadly.

“He’s so young.” Brenol clucked his tongue.
“But Treak? Why’d you want to help him?”

Darse settled his cup on the wood and tilted
his head, listening. “What’s that?”

He glanced around, but the strange
scratching noise had ceased. He stood, exited and circuited the
house, and returned with a puzzled expression.

“I really thought I’d heard something,” he
said.

Brenol just shrugged.

Darse pointed to the cups. “You wash. I’m
going to check the steel and head to the fields.” He pulled out his
wallet and placed several worn papers into Brenol’s hand. It
unnerved him to hold such wealth in just a few slips. Nearly a
season of labor, but it granted a boy’s freedom. “Go get a pass.
But then come back and help me. I’m drowning in work.”

Brenol grinned, and his chest seemed to
swell in gratitude. “Thanks, Darsey.” The boy scampered out without
another word, leaving Darse in his usual solitude.

~

Brenol returned at dusk, sweaty and sour.
The sun had scorched his face and arms, and he winced as he brushed
past Darse in the doorway. “No, I didn’t have my hat,” he said
heatedly and slumped down on the floor.

Darse did not respond, but merely ladled
steamed corz into a bowl and offered it to the boy. He accepted it
greedily, and in moments the pulpy contents were gone. Darse
refilled the bowl and positioned himself beside him.

“You got the pass?” Darse asked.

Brenol’s eyes narrowed. “Nearly wouldn’t
give it to me,” he said between bites. “I’m not of age and
all.”

Darse rubbed his face. “What changed the
scrutar’s mind?” He could not imagine compassion was a sentiment
that bubbled up naturally in the scrutar or any of his kind.

“The line. He still had a bunch of whining
kids to stamp before packing up his booth.” Brenol extracted the
coveted slip and placed it on the ground between them. He met
Darse’s gaze in seriousness. “Thanks, Darse.”

Darse nodded, even though doubt tickled at
him. He often brooded on whether it was good for the boy to remain,
to endure this life here. Taxes, political intrigue, unending
labor, a mother as forgiving as a snake bite. But the time had
passed for such ruminations, at least for this orbit.

“—Darse?”

“I’m sorry. What?”

“I’ll go back to work at Carper’s
tomorrow.”

“Good,” the man replied.

“Darse?”

“What, Bren?” Darse asked wearily.

“Could ya tell me a story? Maybe one about
Massada?” Brenol licked the bowl clean.

“Not tonight, Bren.”

“You okay?”

Darse nodded, even though he was unsure.
“Yes, I just need some sleep.”

Brenol collected his pass, hopped up, and
handed Darse his dish. “I’ll see you in a few days, old man.”

Darse smiled genuinely. “You see to that,”
he said, and he watched Brenol trudge away in the cool dark.

It seems as though the worlds themselves push
forward his fate, and indeed they do.

-Genesifin

It was a dream. Darse recognized the odd
flavor of it, but the world of sleep muddled his mind and swayed
him around like a loose piece of flotsam in its waves.

Darse opened his dream eyes. A soft breeze
wafted across the grassy terrain, stirring the leaves of every bush
and tree. The air was thick and smelled of nectar.

Everything—his spine prickled from it—felt
alive. He could almost sense the ground
breathing.
Life was
under him. The land
knew
him, was
thinking
things
about him, was
watching
him. He did not know how he knew
this; it just was.

Time seemed to shudder past, but the land
remained the same: always aware. It was not evil, yet nothing about
it was safe. It was entirely foreign, uncontrollable.

Suddenly, the breeze rustled through again,
stirring up sand and spitting it into his eyes. He tried to shield
his vision, but the effort was futile.

He felt the restlessness of the land. It
jostled his nerves and left him agitated. Yes, the land was
rousing.

Then it spoke, a serpentine whisper in his
ear, “
Come.
”

“Where?” Darse asked cautiously.

“
I am Veronia. Come. I have long awaited
you.
”

The man shook his head. “No invitation has
been sent,” he said.

“
No? It is at your doorstep.
”

He did not understand. “What do you
want?”

“
Bring the boy. Brenol.
”

Darse’s pulse accelerated into a thundering
allegro. “What do you want with him?” he demanded.

“
Come.
”

The earth rumbled in impatience and quaked
with power. Darse crumpled to all fours and hugged the ground, as
if it would steady him, but he knew he was going to be swallowed by
the land, and there was no escape.

~

Darse jerked awake. He was hot, and his
bedding clung to his skin uncomfortably. He elbowed himself up and
wiped perspiration from his forehead as he craned over to peer out
the window. Pitch black, not even close to dawn. Darse sighed as he
lowered his body back onto the damp pallet, attempting to slow his
racing heart.

The dream rattled around in his mind, and he
could do little to shake away the voice. It had been so foreign to
him, so
other.
There was an urgency, an impatience there,
and Darse sensed the danger keenly.

This is nothing,
he intoned to
himself.
Nothing. It’s my mind spinning its wheel.

His heart, though, thundered on without
heeding.

“The portal is never going to open for you,
old man,” he whispered. “Never.” The words tasted bitter in his
mouth, and he found himself frowning. He felt old, weary,
exhausted. “It’s never going to open,” he repeated. “Stop dreaming
about it.”

Ever since Darse had been a boy, he had
longed for Massada and the world of which his father had spoken. He
ached to be part of something bigger than Alatrice, to belong to
more than taxes and tariffs and farming and toil. Alone, he had
often knelt above the hidden cellar door, caressing the worn, dirty
mat that concealed it. He would abandon every task and thought to
simply stare and wonder. Yet for too long had he felt like a child
pressing his nose to a frosted window pane, yearning for summer. It
was—had proven to be—a dream that would never actualize.

Hope had only been capable of propelling him
for so long, and now Darse shied from it. It had undone him too
many times. To open the door—even to merely peer down—carried such
hopelessness, disappointment, shame. Awe had soured into
bitterness.

It is a good thing it isn’t real. I have to
keep Bren safe.

Darse sighed; if only all his emotions were
as simple as his desire to protect the boy. He
did
long to
go. He had hungered for the opportunity his entire life, and the
promise he had made to his father—to guard the portal and return to
Massada at least once—burned in his chest with a driving impetus.
He was weary of Alatrice and all the kingdom games. He ached to
belong, to have a purpose.

Still, there was Brenol.

Could you really go, fool? And leave
him?

Darse furrowed his brow. His love for Brenol
and his desire for a life outside of Alatrice twisted within him in
an awkward contradiction. Brenol could never come. His mother would
face investigation and severe punishment if the boy disappeared.
And if this dream was somehow real, then Veronia was to be trusted
as much as an asp in his sheets.

“Why do I fret? This is all nonsense.
Nothing is open.”

Darse mused for hours, until dawn pooled the
sky with early light. With morning, the thoughts of the night
became whimsical, and the shadows in his mind dispersed. He felt
disappointment grip him, and he knew the dream had allowed a
trickle of hope to take root.