The Totem-Maker (part eighty-eight)

The Totem-Maker

Chapter Nine

The Recalcitrant One

(part eighty-eight)

Alchas fled. He settled into a shepherd’s hut, left desolate for the war that raged in his land. He made traps for birds and fashioned a fishing net, dug roots…and as the year waned, harvested wild fruits. Happiness grew upon him, in this simplicity of caring for only himself. But he recalled the necromancer’s verse, mindful he had journeyed far to arrive where he’d begun.

Happiness had been his estate, but not his choice. He knew he could not keep it now.

He escaped for only a time. Soon the god of that world below, Tophe, gathered the promised reward. Alchas by the smoke of his fire was discovered, and in the invaders’ arena was stoned to death. The invaders departed, the city gates opened…and there was joy for some.

A fable, as I’d learned it.

Perhaps a King Alchas had lived among the Emperor’s ancestors. I remained at the mouth of my shelter. The lead rider blew a note on his horn that rose and fell. Small exchanges with Moth and other Balbaecans gave me to understand the notes spoke a language. I was asked to come down and name myself.

To spare them the long wait, I called, “The tollhouse I have left in care of my servant. He will collect if your business takes you there. You may call me Keeper, or I am called at times Nur-Elom.”

“Come down, Nur-Elom, and take my hand. I will like to have your blessing. If you would honor me with a game, indeed… Any ill omen and I will turn back.”

The riders sat their horses indifferent, while those who pulled the wagon (I had misjudged them) were a merchant of Balbaec and his son. He was Tazt Shenath, in the trade of decorated cloth, as Vlanna Madla had been. The riders were hired guards, the wiser choice with horses scarce…while neither, these few leagues from home, felt impelled to don his armor. Helms and breastplates and shields were slung behind saddles.

Yet goods so desirable could be sold under a comfortable roof. While I picked my way down, the merchant spoke on.

“Omens are in the air! We are soon to play host to an army. A man of the Prince has given him news they say pleases him. But no, I will not ride to the mountains. I take the straight road, onwards. Some women of the Prince’s household have forced Lord Ei to vacate his own.”

I was better with the Balbaecan tongue for knowing Moth, but so much gossip all at once, my eyes busy watching my feet and my ears sorting grammar, made me lose characters in the merchant’s tale. What I knew of the Prince I did not feel privileged to say, and so I arrived totem in hand and stood in polite silence.

The son said, “Look there”, and nudged his father.

“Dare you show it?”

“Oh,” I said, “it is nothing to me.”

92

The Recalcitrant One

The Totem-Maker (part one)

(2018, Stephanie Foster)