The Totem-Maker (part forty-five)

The Totem-Maker

Chapter Six

A First Road

(part forty-five)

At my first home I’d slept in profound silence. Dreams at the mountain’s foot did not meander from sound to sound, weave stories from caterwauling, birdsong, grunts and morning footsteps. I dreamt of blackened earth, shapes like limbs of trees, that stirred to rise, that gained a gossamer humanity…and with their eyes beseeched me, “Remember and tell.”

I could not remember, though, waking. What lives they had related, what names I was to search for, what tokens they’d brandished. I knew in sleep I understood their language, forgot when not guided by the god. He also told me, remember.

Our army’s road had been forged within my lifetime, grimly to curve Lotoq’s flank. Boulders house-sized, scowling and beak-nosed, many, rude carvings of giants’ heads, sat as fallen, spat by the god. Their eyes peered at and followed us, while we averted ours and fingered amulets. We felt their anger shiver underfoot.

At a helpless pace we intruded. We wormed onwards, as an army half on foot, half-mounted—drawing its wagons, its cooks and blacksmiths, its launderers and menders, its scavengers and rabble—must.

All through this land had rained myriads and myriads of stones, held fast by a charm, some, others light as bread. Certain of a size a woman or slave could carry. Dozens day-long lifted them to sledges; droves of horses dragged them to the masonry yards of the fortress. A soft blue rock abundant here severed into fat planes, which carvers caused to relate our victories, appease our gods, hex our enemies.

We were metal-crafters. Wood for my people was a dear commodity, and our land lay barren of old forest; we made machinery from rock and clay, water, wind, and woven ropes. The quarriers had an ingenious device, new to my eyes. They had made a chute of glazed tile from a natural crevice. Women poured a stream of water at a gentle angle; men hefted a rock and slid it to the incline’s foot, where sat another. Both split at the impact.

But the stone-works passed; we left the dusty air of them, thankful rain lowered on the seaward horizon. Our march was uphill, the drummers’ cadence unflagging. Finally came a true road, paved. The army fanned out while we of the wagons were shouted to the verge. A long, long slope yet, making east, met us midday. We were at our meal, and I was feeding Cuerpha one stem of hay at a time…I had a laughing audience for this, the scavengers’ clan. The soldiers sent them gathering, firewood, lost things along the road…

A surprising number of valuables could jingle to the ground unnoticed. The scavengers…they seemed an enslaved people belonging to the Prince, by gesture begged I hold for them pretty shards of crockery, useful scraps of leather. Yes, buckles and nails the soldiers wanted. The soldiers paraded their servants to the kindling wagon, where they laid sticks, and dropped all else in a pail. Fists might be raised…but the scavengers were innocent. At night, they crept to me by firelight, and behind my back I returned their treasures.

49

The Mustering Grounds

The Totem-Maker (part forty-six)

(2018, Stephanie Foster)