Mountains and Valleys - A Qud Story | Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Kemu brings her to the hut where Dehla lays, sleeping now as the night waxes in its depth. Avira draws up a stool, simple wood burnished with a black dye and sealed against the elements. Dehla lies awkwardly on thick covers nestled in a round cot. Her upper torso is twisted so that she is on her back, and a thick wool blanket, woven in intricate pattern, covers her at an angle. The makeshift rag which Avira had tied around her hoof has been replaced with proper bandaging, red spots seeping through the white. Avira can see, across her arms, a thinly spread green paste that covers the scratches. Her head too is bandaged, the nubs of her horns poking out through the gauze. She is relieved to see her breath is easy, aided by the medicine.

“Stay here a while,” Kemu says, bass voice quiet. “I must call council.”

“What must I do?” Avira asks.

“Watch,” Kemu commands. “Pray. Erikind is our small god of healing. You can make an offering come dawn if you have anything to offer, but prayer and company is more than enough.”

Avira nods, shifts to face the girl as Kemu turns and leaves for another part of the village, hurrying through the dark. She can hear gentle splashes retreating as the path bends under his weight. She clasps her hands in her lap as she had watched Boha do and whispers small prayers for time’s passage to heal. After a time, she lapses into a level quiet where the dark presses in hot around her. The child’s breathing is a slow and steady rhythm.

“We are strangers,” she whispers. “What cause did you have to see me go?”
For a moment she thinks she had spoken too loudly as Dehla shifts under the weight of the covers. The rustling of the sheets brings her attention to the other, subtle sounds shrouded in the night. The short trilling of insects and fish, the rustling of watervine, the low hum of the world settling into phase with the stars. Dark clouds veil the beetle moon until her light is a thin halo. In the coming weeks, Avira knows, she will wane and weaken. Then, beneath her shadowed husk, the time of celebrations will begin where she is venerated and called back to new life; Ut yara Ux. She shudders at the memories it conjures, feels the thin prickle of sweat bead her brow. Her hands grip tight in her lap and the familiar spectre of fear summons physical sensation; old wounds, pulsing with cognizance. In the dimmed light, brought forth by quiet contemplation, her sight focuses on the white bandage around Dehla’s hoof and shifts through the visible to the imagined. The red splotches grow in size, spreading out and out, filling her vision. They warp into twisted figures moving through gauzy smoke. Their eyes are empty, their mouths a cruel smile split with white. The faces collapse, split open, shift into a mountain pass - rocks and trees painted in sick shades of red. In the centre, between the looming walls of scarlet stone, a small and stumbling figure moves with exhausted steps, cloak billowing as unseen wind pushes through the thin gap between the peaks. They twist as though around a drain and become the yawning maw of a cave, its inner world abstruse, black and thick as asphalt. From the darkness, a voice - an idea - worms through her mind. One word, a command, a will that tugs at her thoughts like an insistent animal.

It echoes through her with awful vibration, falling into nothingness:

“Come.”

 

She is startled back to the fullness of the world by a light hand on her shoulder. She is stiff, hunched over her knees on the stool, tail tight with the delicate act of balancing her through unconsciousness. She stretches the dull pain away, senses Boha more than sees them in the still-dark hut. She must have fallen asleep, still exhausted from the day’s events. Dreams flicker away from her attention. In silence, she watches Boha’s shadow in the deep blue night as they sit on the edge of the cot and take a small, damp cloth to wipe the medicine from Dehla’s wounds. With deft hands, their movements slow and deliberate, they remove the bandage from the hoof, barely disturbing the child’s sleep, and examine the damaged ankle with gentle attention. Dehla winces in pain, stirs briefly from the depths of dreaming, seems to sense the purpose with which she is tended. Her eyes glimmer dimly with attention, fall on Avira, and close once more. She lapses back into sleep as Boha rebandages the wound. Their canine form stands, a hazy shade wading through the waning hours. Boha gestures for Avira to follow as they pad out of the small dwelling.  Outside, on the small porch of the hut, the wind has picked up and blows with steady temper over the reeds. She is glad for her cloak, worn though it may be, and she wraps it tight around her.

“Council has been made,” Boha says, voice blending gently into the surrounding sounds of the hushing reeds. “We begin beating the bounds at first light. I must ask for your assistance. Kemu says you will stay a while with his protection.”

“I am at your service, Boha.” Avira replies.

“I am grateful. I will begin attending the ritual preparations soon. When the sun waxes, I must ask that you fetch fresh bandages and water from the town centre to redress Dehla’s wounds. Be gentle, and when she wakes, talk with her. She is a curious child and drawn to the new, which is likely why she followed you. With her head injury she will need to remain awake during the day.” They pause for a moment, their snout turning up to the silver-grey clouds which gather into a great mass. “I will ask our tinker’s apprentice to visit as well, he will be by at high sun. The girl’s foot…” Avira saw her teeth flash white in the dark, a grimace as her lips pulled back in shared pain. “The tinker will do what he can. For now, she must rest.”

Avira nods, looks away into the dark. “I will try to keep her mind busy with other thoughts.” Her eyes drift over the fields. The breeze blows the hazy scent of woodfire smoke from a hut nearby.

“The medicine I left for you,” Boha says. “Another bottle is by Dehla’s cot. Take your dose with her, beginning tomorrow evening. It will make you drowsy.” They sigh. “I must go. I left a bedroll by the door inside for you. Thank you again, Avira.”

“I do not mind,” Avira says, without letting the hesitation creep into her voice.

The morning comes quickly, and the villagers bustle in their work for the ritual. At every hour, canid forms come and go from the marsh as people complete their parts and move with haste to prepare for the next leg of the walk. Across the wild reeds, already being cut back by flashing scythes, a howling chant and steady drumbeat split the noise of work and chatter. Avira follows the walkways with haste toward the West where the huts are clustered in haphazard proximity. With surprise, she finds the walkway ends as the ground rises slightly from the surrounding water. The main square of the village is paved with bright white stone. A cluster of small statues, bowls at each of their feet and garlanded in wreaths of blooming lilies, marks the centre. As she comes up on the scene, she watches villagers approach with their offerings from the marsh - woven wreaths of stalk marked with small berries and the bright green of fresh leaves. The bowls are filled with rich soup. The smell of it is potent and makes Avira’s stomach leap with the thought of food. There is a tent, too, across the square, stitched with small scales that banish the gloaming shadow into oily ripples across its unlit face. This was where Boha had said she could find what she needs. Its distinct aspect catches the eye and reels her toward it. She slips through the thin crowd with ease, her cloak catching over her body with dancing movements. The flush waterskin at her side bounces on her hip.
Pushing open the tent flaps, she ducks into the cool shadow. The sound of the crowd and distant chanting is muffled quickly by the thick fabric that falls behind her. A thin purple haze threads the air with musky smell, drawn by the lit cone of incense sitting by the entrance. All around the tent, lushly patterned pillows are strewn near wooden racks of objects for sale and trade. At the back, lit by muted light filtered through the gauzy material over the windows, a dromad sits, hunched, arranging stones along the ground in mathematical patterns. His face is a rolling dune of yellow fur, his eyes bright like pools of water in the desert. He is dressed in a strikingly coloured coat that rises in a hump over his body. A long pipe in his other hand leads lazily to a red hookah, and he puffs on it thoughtfully. A small billow of steam rises from the coals, and he exhales a powerful cloud which thins into gentle wisps as it passes through the shafts of light. Beside him, chewing lazily on a sheaf of vinewafers, a tortoise almost his size hunkers low to the ground, feet set wide apart, long neck bending to the bowl of greens for another mouthful. The dromad looks up, his own neck curving in a low-slung arc. As he spots her, he meets her gaze with a wide grin that shows white, square teeth.

“Well!” He says as he laughs heartily and slaps his knee, setting down his pipe and gesturing widely at her. Avira is surprised by the sound of his voice, which bubbles with good humour and rings with a clear-throated acceptance, as if he isn’t surprised at all. “If it isn’t our wounded traveller, back from the dead!” He leans over to the tortoise and whispers loudly, in mock conspiracy, for her to hear. “Do you think she remembers us, Dolmo?”

Avira is silent. The cool and fragrant air, accompanied by the man’s startling energy, dizzies her for a moment.

“Do not mind him, he’s a grumpy old fool and not much for conversation,” He says, waving his hand dismissively in the tortoise’s direction. The tortoise turns its head slowly toward him and chews heavily on the crackling vegetation. As he speaks it slowly turns again to look at Avira, though its gaze seems focused far beyond sight. “I am Desal.” He says, genially. “Come, sit! Sit!” He moves a pillow from beside him to the floor a ways in front of him, an easy distance, not too close. As he does, his body stretches, his hump heaving forward in a rippling bank of motion.

Avira moves toward him, takes the offered seat cross-legged, tail curling around her waist. She presses her palms to her knees. “I am Avira.” She says, following the rites of introduction. “I have you to thank for bringing me here?” She pauses a moment, meets his eyes. His is a calculating gaze, though not unfriendly, which glimmers like prized citrine set deep into his face. “Thank you, Desal.” She smiles lightly, more at ease after the simple gesture.

“It is nothing,” he waves her way with modesty. “I was making my way here anyhow. I’m afraid I could do little to help your injuries, but I know Boha to be an excellent apothecary to her people. You seem to be doing well.” His neck sways in parabolic motion as he tilts his head at an angle, as if he’s trying to look through her, see her in a new light.

“I am. I have Boha and Dehla to thank for that. Boha sent me here to fetch bandages, I’m afraid I cannot stay long,” she says, apologetic.

“Ah yes, the child. It is your doing that the village is so busy today!” he opens his chest with pealing laughter. “You will be my sole customer until waning sun tomorrow! Here,” he says, and heaves himself to his feet with a short exhale, a rumbling breath that moves his lips with the force of it. He slips on a pair of vinereed sandals which had sat next to the cushion. His feet split into two large toes, the nails on their end painted in brilliant orange. He walks with steady pace to a shelf to her right and Avira follows him with her gaze, turning on the cushion to watch his fluid steps. She sees that he is tall, reaching the full height of the shelf when he stretches for the white linen, neck rising to a tangent of his form. He plucks the bandages from their spot, two rolls from the pyramid, and passes them to her when he has crossed the distance back. “It is nine drams for two, but if you’ve anything to trade we can negotiate the price some.”

Avira shakes her head, putting the bandages in a pocket of her cloak. “That’s okay, thank you.”

He nods. She waits as he fetches a deep bowl from the back of the tent. The inside is painted in thick horizontal bands, and on the lip a small spout makes for easy transfer to his own stores. He brings another bowl with him too, this one shallow, wide, with a geometric flower covering its concave surface. He sets it aside, and brings the first bowl between them as he seats himself again, settling it on the white paved ground. It makes a hollow clunk as wood meets stone. Avira takes her waterskin from her hip in silence, pours up to the sixth band, waits as he passes it to his own waterskin through the hollow spout which slots neatly into the neck. The water babbles in fresh language, alive with the motion as she pours again up to the fifth band before it settles into silence. When it is quiet, with only the sounds of Dolmo crunching on his leaves and the muted noise of the busy square outside, Desal takes the bowl, repeats the motion in reverse, and the water pools its knowledge with the rest. He leaves a single dram in the deep bowl, which he transfers to the shallow one, swapping the two so that the mandalic earthenware sits respectfully at the centre of their meeting. It susserates against the painted clay, lapping at the thin edge with wet tongues. The water brightens the pattern, and outside the tent a cloud passes from the salt sun as it journeys through the sky, sending a shaft of muted light through the tent’s windows to skip over the bowl’s surface, marking a bright crescent on the tent’s blue ceiling. Avira is aware, suddenly, of how her cool breath ripples through her, how she can feel Desal’s presence across the way.

“Your thirst is mine,” he says, soft and low. She repeats his words, her own voice hushed.

“My water yours.” She intones, knowing the words yet not where they come from, and he echoes her. She lifts the bowl to her lips, the flat mirror of the water deepening in the shadow. She can see Desal reflected at this angle, upside down, fractured by the geometric lines, and she sips deeply of the life-giving nectar. Carefully, when she has had her part, she passes the bowl to his cupped and waiting hands, and watches as he also drinks, her image captured in the same manner. It is quiet a moment longer, her throat leaps with the lingering taste and the energy that passes between them. She shifts in her seat, tail loosening at her hips. Desal moves too, standing, and she joins him, pressing up from the cool floor.

“Strangers no more!” He says with a wide smile. “It is a pleasure doing business with you. I will prepare tea when you next visit, and we can talk over a pipe.” She nods, and moves toward the entrance, lifting the flap and inviting in the overlapping sound of the village crowd clustering for prayer. Dolmo glances at her sidelong, and lets out a short and low bellow through his mouthful. The sound echoes a goodbye.

“It will be a pleasure.” She says, and means it. She thinks to herself that he is an easy presence. She waves to the tortoise with a small smile. “Live and drink, friend.” She says, and sees Desal raise his palm to his chest, face forming into mock shock eddied by laughter at her passive goodbye.

Then she is out in the square again, thick fabric falling in fluid motion behind her. The crowd is loud, larger than a quarter hour ago as more people have returned from their tasks to bless the shrines. There is a press of bodies near her, where several people hoist a net of fish on four long poles between them, with more carrying bundles of thinly stripped reeds. The orange-bodied things writhe in the harsh air, but the net is woven tight and sits heavy with their collective weight. She moves around them as they lay the net down nearby and begin to set up the poles to form racks, loosing them from the webbing. The others cross the frame with the reeds, weaving tight squares, and it is leaned against a nearby building. Curious, she watches as they separate out the fish along the racks to dry, still flopping, their tails caught in the make of the pattern. When one of the group takes a long, needle-like knife to pierce between the eyes, she moves away, taking quick steps across the square and back toward Boha’s medicine hut.  The heat of the sun mingles with the fresh salt smell of the marsh, prickling her skin as it wicks moisture quickly away. She leans against the thick wall of a nearby hut and drinks deeply from the waterskin, lighter now after the deal. A shout from back across the square draws her attention and she startles, tail flicking to the source of the noise before she turns and sees a group of young canids squabbling over the spot for a market stall. It is quickly broken up by an older woman, her grey, decorated braids of fur defining her position. She steps in and directs them to other places. Avira relaxes into the moment, soothed by the sound of the crowd and the constant chirping of insects. She pushes off the wall and walks slowly along the swaying paths. The water ripples out in fresh patterns with each step she takes.

Back in the hut, Dehla is awake. When Avira arrives, she applies the bandages to the girl’s hoof and head. Dehla chatters about the village, who she likes, where she goes, interrupted only when the bandage cinches tight around her mangled foot and she winces.

“Selly took it right from the fish’s mouth! It was so slimy, and she gave the fish a big strip of jerky. I’ve never seen someone trade with a fish before! She keeps the pearl in her hut and lets me look at it when I’m there. Don’t tell her I told you, she likes to tell the story around the fire sometimes and if you know already she’ll be sad, okay?” The child babbles like a spring of clear water, all energy and bright-eyed wonder. Avira nods, and promises she won’t say a word. Dehla doesn’t seem confused, like Kemu had said, but she lapses occasionally into huffs of pain as she tries to shift in the bed, laying on her stomach with her legs folded under her, upper body upright. They play small games of language to pass the time and Avira is close to losing her third round of difficult repetition when there is a knock on the frame of the doorway. In the gap a young snapjaw stands awkwardly, hands clasped together, feet shuffling. He glances at Dehla. In her peripheral vision, Avira notices the hindren girl look down shyly.

“I am Ekro, tinker’s apprentice.” He says to Avira. His voice is marked by the high whine of his people’s youth. She nods and he steps inside. In the cool light of the interior she can pick out the details of his person. He’s young, the same age as Dehla if she hazards a guess. He is dressed in a light grey coverall, tufts of black fur sticking out of the cuffs and over the collar. His hands work nervously at the strap of the bag that hangs across his body - a thick fabric cuboid with a padded handle and detailed in patterns of looping bronze wire. He comes and kneels beside the cot, opening the satchel, where Avira glimpses neatly arrayed compartments, tools crammed into every one. From one of the compartments close to his body, he pulls out a notepad and pencil.

“Hello Dehla,” he says, softly.

“Hi Ekro,” She responds in a bright whisper.

Avira stands and moves to examine the shelves around the hut, giving them space. She hears them talk quietly, focuses her attention on the glass jars and clay pots arranged along the walls; all labeled, categorized, and filled with various colourful herbs, poultices, and liquids. A clear spray bottle sits at one end of the shelf, loaded partway with an oozing green substance through which a bright red swirls in indurated loops. Underneath it, a small square of paper lies folded. Avira tugs it from its place and spreads it out on a lower shelf. It is a map, detailed finely with local landmarks. Here, the village. There to the west, a large, lone tree. A location to the north is marked with a stylised image of a worm, circular rows of fangs in its black hollow of a throat. It twists over itself, forming a looping letter with its body. To the east, red canyons loom in thick formation, and beyond that the edges of the paper are blank, unfilled. She puts it back, neatly folded along the creases. She reaches for the vessel to the left of it, a small clay pot with a tight fitting lid. She tugs it off, and it opens with a satisfying pop. Inside, dusty powder plumes. It smells faintly of jeweled jasmin, a flower she had encountered once in the salt dunes. It had grown thick around an oasis, blossoms curling in fractal ronds. The smell lavishes her memory, wafting in hazy clouds of pollen. She had almost stayed there, too. A bitter smell follows the first. Not just jasmin then, something else ground up and mixed in. The lid slides smoothly back into place. She would ask Boha to show her some of its uses, maybe trade for some when she leaves. It would be a small comfort to have something beautiful to travel with. Behind her, the sound of Ekro’s pencil scratching on the pulpy paper pricks at her ears. The pair are hushed, and Avira moves around the hut lighting small candles and pressing on the bulbs that dot the walls. A little light to counter the shadow of the noon-day sun. Then, she walks to the doorway and steps outside into the heat. The reed framed porch provides a small amount of shade and she sits leaning against the wall with her tail over her legs. The ground, slightly raised from the surrounding marsh, is soft and cool despite the sweltering waves of sunrays. She closes her eyes, letting the buzz and chirp of insects wash over her. Still, in the distance, moving through the northern part of the village now, the barking, howling chant.

When Ekro is done, he steps out and nervously taps her on the shoulder. Her eyes open quickly, and the look she gives him is too harsh for a moment. The sun is long past its zenith, beginning to wane. Wispy clouds streak the blue air and burst against the high winds buffeting them.

“S-sorry,” he says, holding up his paws. “I’m going now, Dehla is… master Calmly-goes will work from my designs to help her. She will need to be fitted with a prosthetic.” His voice pitches up into a whine on the last word. He looks down the path, eager to leave now. “Please tell the apothecary what I said, and… and look after Dehla.” Avira’s expression softens when he faces her again. His eyes are pleading. Just a child, worried for his friend.

“Boha said she will recover. Her hoof is less than her life.” Avira says, soothingly. “I will stay and keep her company until they return.”

He nods, turns to leave. Avira turns too, ducking in through the low doorway. Dehla still lays in her cot. The interior is cool and musky with the scent of herbs, stark contrast to the hot air that presses in behind her. On a table by the door she picks out a thin stick powdered with incense and lights it from a dripping candle. She places it upright on the flat plate with a small hole in its centre. A ribbon of smoke flares upward, twisting in the currents of the thin breeze that slip in through the door. She sits by Dehla’s bed again and gives the girl a glance which says ‘Oh, I saw that’, and chuckles as Dehla blushes furiously, her snout and ears becoming red as the heart of a fire. Dehla swats at her, and Avira laughs harder. They settle into easy conversation, snacking on small fruits which decorate the bedside table, until the sun is beginning to brush the edges of the marsh in the distance.

It is then when Boha returns, bustling into the hut at the same time they begin removing their stiff and heavy ceremonial robe. Underneath, their fur is matted with sweat and their toga of cloth is muddied at the hem. They shake themself off and take a pot from a lower shelf by the door, dipping their paw inside and pulling it out covered in a fine, white powder. They pat at their neck, arms and ankles with the stuff, dipping their paw in again to get more. When they are done, they step outside again, and Avira watches through the doorway as they stand still at the edge of the walkway. Suddenly, small black sparks leap from all over their body, visible only against the glow of the setting sun. They almost catch the breeze, but fall into the marsh instead, where there’s a furious splashing as fish leap to catch them. Boha steps back into the hut, dusting off their paws on their toga. They nod to Avira.

“I can take it from here,” they say. “Her medicine?”

Avira gestures toward the drawer by the cot.

“Thank you,” Boha says. “Dehla, it’s good to see you awake. We have much to talk about.” Dehla looks down, avoiding their eye.

Avira stands, says goodbye to the girl, but Boha places a hand on her arm. “Before you leave,” they say, pausing to give a small but unmistakable silence room to grow. “Our keeper has called to see you."