Tropican Chronicles, # 6, Song: A Rest for the Weary, part 1

  Song: A Rest for the Weary, p.r. 43, Taurus

                                      I. A New Home

Ina woke to the smell of warm food. The rest of the Overland was still fast asleep- even Faron. She would have liked to keep sleeping, but the aroma of corn masa-cakes propelled her into a queasy waking. She sat up, and called to those in the kitchen area. Most of the red cave’s lit lamps had been moved there while they were cooking, and it’s bustling residents varied in shades of reddish, from nearly pale to nearly black.
“Do you have something I can eat right away? Please?” Ina asked the dark-hued woman who approached.
“Cold chopped nopales, if you can’t wait for the arepas,” Moema studied the dark haired easterner. She was plumper than her gaunt comrades, yet she seemed unusually desperate.
“I don’t think I can wait,” Ina gave a sullen look. “Can you possibly bring me some?”
Moema rose, wondering at Ina’s early waking when the rest of the company was, understandably, still asleep. The wavy-haired westerner settled back in front of Ina, watching her cautiously taste the sample. She ate slowly, not like a starving person. “You alright?” the dark woman asked.
Ina nodded. “Think it’s going to sit right. Sure tastes a lot better with avocado and oil in it.” She noted the quizzical expression on the westerner’s face. “Pregnant,” she confessed.
Moema nodded, understanding dawning on her. “How far along?”
“Almost three months,” Ina told her.
“So, basically the whole journey?” Moema guessed.
Ina sighed, stared into her gourd bowl. “Yeah. They’ve kept me well fed, but it’s been hard.”
Moema shook her head, the wiry waves of her hair shifting behind her shoulders. “I can’t even imagine.” She rose to fetch Ina one of the first arepas coming off the griddle.

The rest of the Overland’s people slowly awakened, jostled by the day’s activity. Their animals had already been led out to pasture, and now the residents of Song were busy shuffling sacred symbols and alters within and into the Red cave.
Marcus sat up, stretching stiffly and yawning. “What’s all this ruckus?”
Emma brought him some of the breakfast saved out for them. “Maybe they need to make room somewhere for horses and extra people.”
“Preparations for the harvest of ripe winter grains,” Faron told them. “Sorghum’s the first, and they’ll start any time now. The work and celebrations last for weeks.”

Soon after they’d eaten, the red cave’s healer looked them over. Samara and Arlataan watched with relief as the shorn-haired westerner took over their task. He tended the small, redheaded warrioress first, pasting and re bandaging Bridgit’s creeping second-day clawing. Wayland and Davies were healing well; the poison gone from the skinniest and fattest warriors’ recent marks. As he moved on to older, better healed wounds, Arlataan leaned to speak in Samara’s ear.
“He’s going to have questions. You should go sit with them.”
Samara turned her head a little, her straight brown hair shining in the lamp’s light. “Me? You’re our master healer.”
“You’ve been tending these most recent more than I,” Arlataan said.
Samara glanced around at her company. “Where’s Comet? He’s the one with the answers to the questions Halix will have.”
Arlataan craned his neck toward the back of the cave. “Sleeping.”
Samara gave an exasperated sigh. “Still? About time someone ought to wake him up, don’t you think?”
Arlataan gave her a sidelong look of doubt. “I seem to remember hearing something about not waking sleeping dragons. Think it applies to him?”
Samara’s shoulders fell.
“It’s your turn,” Arlataan intoned.
The young woman pressed her lips together and took a breath, rising to take a seat near Halix as he examined two who were nearly mended. Moric’s scratch was ordinary, and the burly stoneworker was healing with no trouble, but Halix looked to Samara and raised an eyebrow when Temoc showed his shin. Tendrils that should have been spidery-thin and better healed than the actual claw-mark were wider, and still scabbed.
“It was when we’d just found the river again,” Samara explained. “We only had the Tall Sister, and she couldn’t get it all out on her own.”
“You cut the poison out?” Halix guessed.
Samara smiled nervously, shaking her head. “Not me, but yes. As soon as we found the Small Sister.” Her expression sobered. “We lost one, in the desert without the herbs.”
“You lost only one in the desert. . . where did you lose the others?” Halix asked.
Temoc’s movements were stiff as he took off his undyed cotton shirt to reveal a number of scars on his arms and torso. Some of the wounds had been deep, and the darkened marks were still new and fragile-looking. “A Horde came. That night, all the slinkers it chased from the coast found us, high up on the mountain’s shoulder.”
Halix held a coconut-shell lamp before the stocky westerner, studying intently. “These haven’t crept as far as others I’ve seen,”
“If you make slinkers wait long enough, they clean their claws in the dirt for you,” Temoc said, working his shirt back on.
“How many of you were this badly wounded?” Song’s healer wondered.
“Most of us got less, but I’m not the worst.”
“Seawater will strengthen scars and heal skin faster,” Halix suggested.
Samara leaned forward in her seat. “A bath sounds wonderful,” she breathed. Soon, groups were walking down the path to the shore, guarded by Song’s warriors of the same gender. The morning sun was at their backs and the tide was beginning to go out, leaving a damp length of fine, grey sand before the sea.
Some waded in slow, but Zoe rushed the waves, running until she had to swim. She found a spot between the breakers and slowly stretched her arms open, floating in the salty, swirling waters. All the sweat and grime of months of travel dissolved into the waves around her. The tension of nights full of fighting melted into a blissful lightness. The sea held her up; as long as she treaded water with a chest full of air. It had always been easier for her to sink, than other women. Her neck and shoulders were still weak from deep wounds, but the salty water was limbering them up. She took deep breaths, and dove. Feeling the cold pressure of the water all around her was comforting. It’s silky smooth flow across her skin familiar. This was where she belonged, under the sea. She touched the beach’s shallow bottom in no time, then allowed the breath of air she’d taken to raise her slowly to the surface again, with hardly any effort on her part.
Shortly after, the entire Overland went down to the freshwater to clean their armors and spare change of clothes at the mouth of a large irrigation canal. The bank where they hung their garments was hidden from sight of the fields by a thick, but sparsely-leaved hedge. Though Song’s guards stood watch, the washers were assured a slinker was highly unlikely to make it past those in the fields. Later, women then men went in small groups to change into hopefully-dry spares and wash the ones they wore.

Even the thick cloth of Comet’s robe had dried quickly in the arid heat, and though most armors were still damp, his smaller kilt was also ready for wear. While the other five in the group changed to wash what they’d been wearing, Comet tied his cloth at his hips and buckled his kilt to stand watch with Song’s three guards.
The shortest warrior crossed his arms, grinning. “We don’t need help. If a devourer comes this way, it’ll go for the gardeners out there before it ever gets here.”
Comet gave a deep nod, spoke briefly with his companions, then wandered alone into the field of maturing millet.
The shortest guard climbed the bank and stood at the edge of the brambly hedge, watching in puzzlement as the tall stranger trotted away, his golden curls sparking in the sunshine. He carried the gear of a warrior, yet wore far less armor than the rest of the Overland. Despite his mostly exposed skin, the only scars on him were thin and symmetrical. “Where does he think he’s going, all alone?” Orival wondered, half-sliding back down the bank of coarse sand.
“Oh, him? He’s exploring,” Davies’s tone was casual as he hung his thin shirt and pants on the green branches of a sapling to dry.
Sirio spoke without taking his eye from the wind’s direction, a freshly mended patch on the side of his coat. “I’d think you’d have had enough exploring for a while,” the tall guard commented.
Davies chuckled. “The rest of us sure have. Even me.”
“If it’s a new place, he has to run it’s borders,” Moric said.
The guard with a yellow-dark tint in his complexion turned his attention to them. “Are all you Easterners stupid enough to walk off alone?” Jedir wanted to know.
Burkhart chuckled heartily. “Hell no, but he’s. . . different. And not an Easterner, either.”
“A field full of workers and guards is hardly alone, compared to where we’ve been,” Neal pointed out.
“I suppose,” Orival conceded. “How’s he not as scarred up as the rest of you, if he’s really a warrior?”
“Or dead, walking alone with barely anything on?” Sirio added.
“He’s a very good fighter, and he’s had his share of hits, but the marks always fade,” Arlataan said.
Orival gave another look of puzzlement.
“Like I said, he’s different,” Burkhart repeated. “His disposition’s more like a good horse; I’ve never seen him get angry, and he has mastered himself. Even when he’s afraid, he keeps steady enough to do what he needs to do.”
“They say he has two hearts,” Davies added. Burkhart nodded. Birdsong filled a momentary silence.
“Bullshit,” said the tall Sirio, still watching the scrubby bush.
“He’ll let you listen,” Burkhart insisted.
“He won’t admit it, but it gives him more stamina and speed,” Moric said. “He moves the sword like lighting, can carry more and walk longer.”
“And I’ve never seen anyone eat so little through the desert,” Neal added. “He and Davies here kept Ina fed, and without his water, she would have lost her baby.”
Jedir glanced at Davies, raised an eyebrow. “You gave someone else your food?”
Davies grinned. “I’m skinny, for me.” Still thick in body, most of his muscles were visible beneath an even layer of padding.
“Should we wait for your. . . different friend to come back?” Orival looked up to Burkhart.
The tall, burnt-headed warrior shrugged. “Don’t need to. He knows where the town is.”
“No telling how far he’ll go or when he’ll be back, either,” Neal added.

It was mid afternoon when the group returned to the cave-town, it’s residents busily cleaning out a large storage cavern at the outskirts. Wooden crates and hempen sacks lay piled at it’s mouth, little birds fluttering cautiously around them to pick at bits of stale grain and insects. Sweepers whisked the debris of previous harvests out the light slate-shingle and wooden door, laughter echoing within. Some stepped outside for fresh air, coughing from the dust they kicked up. Others tended a fire over which perched a big cauldron, full of boiling water and storage sacks being sterilized for the year’s fresh harvest.
The newly clean Overlanders rested under the sheltering shade of trees in front of the cave-houses, watching the briny water get shallower in the canal that fed the red cave’s pool.
People who led animals to graze were some of the first that returned to the cave dwellings from afield, and the beasts soon joined their familiar people in the tree branches’ lengthening, feathery shadows.
“Is there a cave that can be converted into a barn?” Arlataan asked the newly arrived group.
“Some undeveloped caverns on the far outskirts,” a woman who’d led a beast waved her hand in the direction of the lowering sun, looking along the jagged mound of stone. “But I’m not sure how big they are.”
“That won’t do,” Burkhart shook his head. “Have to have the animals in close, so you can keep them guarded. Slinkers will catch the scent and go straight for them.”
“Now is not the time to be worrying about making new caves,” said a warrior. “The harvest starts tomorrow, and everyone will be working or guarding in the sorghum fields.”
“If your sorghum harvest is anything like our cane harvest, you’ll need the room that they’re taking up in the red cave,” Bridgit pointed out.
“All of you are taking up extra room in there, not just your animals. It’s full,” A stout woman with shining-black hair looked over the recent arrivals. “Some of you might find living quarters with families, as we’ve always done, and anyone fit enough to fight is welcome in the guardhouses,” Kachiri said.
“Good idea,” Faron agreed. “People will be easier to find places for than horses.”
Arlataan shook his head. “It would be a better idea to find places for the animals. You can’t expect injuries to heal well if you’re keeping wounded people in a barn, and that’s all your red cave is until you move them.”
“It’ll have to do for the time being,” Kachiri told him grimly.
Arlataan didn’t reply, crossing his arms in silent, stubborn anger.

The evening’s meal was as small and plain as the last, but the town’s mood was one of relaxation and anticipation. All was in readiness to begin the gathering of sorghum, and many turned in early. Overlanders and their beasts were crowded into the red cave for one more night, and most had finished their meals.
“Where’s Comet?” Ina wanted to know. “It’s sunset, and he’s still out? Has anyone seen him lately?” Others in the safe cavern shook their heads. Murmurs of uncertain concern ran through the group of expeditioners. No one had heard from him since he trotted away from the washpool.
A shadow crossed the crack of open door and Comet entered, walking with relaxed ease. He joined them after stashing his gear and kilt to eat his cooling dinner.
“Where have you been all day?” Bridgit scolded.

Comet’s manner was unconcerned, his mood still colored by a lingering bliss. He eyed her through a stray curl, and half smiled. “Somewhere safe.”
Catalina put a hand on her hip. “You missed the meeting.”
Comet brushed the golden lock back. “Was I needed?”
The slender warrioress closed her mouth in a thoughtful pause. “I guess not,” she conceded. “Unless you mind being given a healer’s shift and sleeping in the upwind guardhouse the rest of the time.” Comet shrugged in amiable consent.
“We did learn the gulf’s north coast is almost completely safe, though,” Fiona told him.
Comet closed his eyes, and in his mind’s eye he saw a lake a ways to the north that fed a big river, and maybe a little river too. “It’s water protected. Even a Horde would be unlikely to go there.”
“I guess where we’re going really is safe, Temoc,” Catalina said with hope.
Comet roused from his light trance to focus on her with his black-dark eyes. “If you’re bound for safe lands, would you consider taking the mares?”
Catalina nodded without hesitation, but Temoc shot her a doubtful stare. “We’ll think about it,” he said.

Comet saw to Bridgit’s still-slowly creeping claw mark, shaking his head as he tried to get thin drawing-poultice to stick where it was needed. “Miss the sticky stuff, don’t you?” she observed. He nodded. “Me too. I could be in a guardhouse if we had it.”
“And so could I,” Burkhart said, with a hint of frustration. “But no one’s going to want a one-eyed man to watch their back.”
“Can’t see slinkers half the time anyway, and your ear still works,” Bridgit pointed out.
Burkhart grunted. “I know it.”
Samara came to sit with them, watching Comet as he worked. “I hope you thought of looking for dragonswort while you were out all day?”
Comet nodded, intent on his task. “It was easy to find the two sisters; a little harder to locate the Mother of Ten Thousand Young.” When he was finished, he unhooked and opened a soft-leather medicine bundle he kept at his hip.
When Samara had stashed two leaves of the Dragons’ plant with her own stock of supplies, she sat back down beside him. “Why do you call it the mother of ten-thousand young?”
“The plant requires very specific conditions to flower. Few of them ever grow in the proper place, but when they do, their seeds are tiny like dust. So many thousand and so small; carried by the wind, on the feet of animals, or by the dragons themselves.”

                                  II. Harvest

Just after the morning’s leisurely, small breakfast, a man entered the red cave bearing a crate full of little flasks. “Elder juice, fresh from Verde,” he declared. Sirio opened one immediately, passing among fellow healing warriors. Members of the Overland eagerly joined the circle for their sip, but it’s fermented quality made some pucker their mouths in surprise.
“Not alcoholic, but it’s bubbly,” Davies remarked.
“Vinegar, maybe?” Bridgit guessed. It had a bite, almost a sourness, that the fresh didn’t have.
Marcus shuddered as he passed it on, smacking his lips. “How can something that’s been soured taste even more like blood?”
“Nah, it tastes better this way,” Fiona opined.
After, the red cave became roomy again as most Overlanders moved their belongings into the places where they would stay; some with families, some in the two guardhouses.

It was well after the morning’s dew had burned off when the town of Song moved into the Sorghum fields, traveling the road at the riverside until the Isles in the water grew short. Across the gardens and fields, another, larger set of stoney ridges jutted out of the deep bed of pebble and silt soil that the glaciers had dropped in the lowlands. The jagged rocks seemed to hold back the half-evergreen jungle, defining the border of the cultivated lands. Harvesters started in the farthest field, cutting ripe seed heads and stacking them in piles. The Overland’s beasts of burden avidly munched the tall sorghum stalks’ green leaves while waiting to be loaded with bundles of grain. The gathered harvest was laid at the shady commons in front of the town caverns for drying, and a group stayed behind to guard it from inquisitive birds and turn it until everyone came in from the fields. They moved the cut sorghum sprays into a storage cave for the night’s safe keeping and began to cook in the open firepits. Tired though the town was, it’s little meal was taken in celebration, the communal grounds ringed by guards. There was quiet music, which died down at the beginning of sunset, when a troupe of dancers appeared wearing horned masks and brightly colored cloth.
The early arrival of the evening’s man-tall slinkers cut the play short as dancers and spectators fled for their caves, shutting slate shingled doors tight. The warriors nearest the devourers’ approach fought, and a group gathered to guard the red cave’s heavier door, still opened enough to receive any casualties. At the end, six skinny black devourers were down, and it was possible a few more had fled. Warriors pulled flint tipped arrows, cleaning them in the canal ditch’s wet, silty sand. Others who hadn’t been in the fight spread out to gather edible looking scraps of food scattered over the area.
Catalina and Emma looked on doubtfully as the slightly trampled food was eaten without so much as a grimace.
“It’s going to be a long night; these leftovers will help tide us over,” Jhordana explained, flopping her crocodileskin hood off of her curly, brownish hair.
“It’s always a long night,” Jedir pointed out. The sallow, lanky man finished someone’s masa-bread crust, and grinned. “No point going hungry when there’s food just lying around.”
“Guess we better get home too, then.” Jhordana turned to the Eastern warrioresses, jerking her head in a beckoning motion. They followed her as the last guards split ways, heading towards the lowering end of the ridge that held Song. “The fighting’s harder in the downwind guardhouse,” the slim westerner said after a time.
“Figured that’s why they put us there,” Catalina said.
Guardhouse west’s slate door was nearly as heavy as the red cave’s, requiring rollers on the bottom, though it opened much more swiftly. The new arrivals hadn’t even had a chance to hang up their gear before a wavy-haired woman in heavy crocodile armor approached with purpose, looking them up and down. Emma was taller, with paler skin, black hair and lighter armor. Catalina looked stronger, her sandy hair glinted in the lamplight and her coat was thick and hard. “So, we have the women in Black,” Aleandra crossed her arms, eyeing their shining blackleather with envy.
“You’ll have Bridgit and Burkhart eventually,” Catalina’s tone was carefully neutral as she unstrung her bow and hung it on the wall.
Aleandra gave a dismissive shrug, her tone haughty. “An ordinary warrioress and a one eyed man. What would I care about them?”
Emma and Catalina exchanged uncertain glances, and Sirio approached. “What shift were you two on over the Mountain?” he ventured.
“I was first and she was second,” Emma was quick to reply, relieved for the interruption.
Sirio raised an eyebrow. “The lighter armor fought the bigger ones?”
“It just happened that way. Both are tough enough.” Catalina still kept the challenging warrioress at the edge of her vision.
Sirio turned to Emma. “I’ll watch your back tonight, then. Still healing,” he indicated a patch on the side of his coat. “So I can’t fight in front just now.” Emma hung up her gear and followed the tall warrior.

Aleandra gave a wicked smile, her sparking eye fixed on Catalina. “Let’s see how you fight, under that fancy armor.” Her voice held a tint of cruel joy. Others in the cave backed away, anticipating the duel. Aleandra was relentlessly determined to be the top warrioress in Song, and she was sure to establish dominance over the new arrival.
Catalina was not in the mood. After months of fighting and a long day in the fields, she had been hoping at least for a restful evening before taking a shift in the downwind guardhouse. She sighed and shook her head, setting her jaw in determination. Looked like she would have to put a crazy bitch on the ground first.
Aleandra drew her sword with a smooth, eager sound and charged, still smiling. Catalina found the Westerner a formidable opponent; she was heavier and possibly stronger, yet her movements were swift as she pushed Catalina fiercely from one side of the arena-space to the other, the clash of steel ringing in the vaulted cavern. Catalina wasn’t about to surrender. Someone like this would never let her forget it. She mustered her strength, dodging Aleandra’s pushes and driving the challenger back with her sword. Aleandra gradually lost ground to the onslaught and rough yells of the Easterner in Blackleather, until she landed on her tail with Catalina’s sword poised at her throat.
Aleandra look surprised. “You beat me,” she huffed. “I can’t believe you beat me.”
Catalina lowered her sword, looked down at the challenging warrioress and offered her hand. “You have to get good, when you’re the only meat on an empty mountainside,” she said darkly.
Aleandra picked herself up, looking across her nose at Catalina with flashing eyes. “I’ll beat you, next time,” she hissed.

The next day started early as people moved yesterday’s harvest back out into the sun to finish drying. After a light breakfast, they moved into the fields again to continue cutting. The daylong task was hard on the weary Overlanders, who worked with one another so they could rest more often. Even Comet followed their slower pace. Temoc watched his charge, Greta, munch with determined zeal at the sorghum’s toughish leaves. The stout mare had come over the mountains carrying a foal, and her ribs were showing the most out of all the animals.
By afternoon, some of the first day’s harvest was dry enough to store or use, and soon a group was pounding away at a batch of soaked grain, separating edible kernel from hard outer shell in large stone mortars.
Ina straightened, putting her hands against the sore small of her back. “This is harder than I remember it being,” she said.
“Carrying a baby will do that,” said her partner at the mortar, a strong-looking woman in a light leather vest. “You get sore, just take more rests. I can crush for a while.”
“I think I’m getting hungry again, too,” Ina lamented.
Leila laughed. “I should have some pupusas leftover from last night, if you want. But, they’re a little spicy.”
Ina nodded graciously. “I’d love to try some, thank you.” She kept pounding grain from hulls as the wiry woman trotted away toward her cave.
Leila returned with hesitation, waiting until one of the guards had shot down a couple prowling hatchlings. “Only one left. I guess my kids got into them.” She held out the single, flattish morsel apologetically.
“Lucky there’s any left, then,” said a neighbor-pounder.
Ina took slow bites of the stuffed maize snack. When she got to the filling, her eyes widened in surprise, and soon she was panting.
“Too hot?” Leila guessed.
“I forgot,” Ina said when she’d recovered somewhat. “The West’s version of ‘a little spicy’ is a lot different than the East’s.” Leila chuckled. Gingerly, Ina took another bite, watching Leila grind hull from grain with the huge pestle and mortar. Beyond the heat, there was another, distantly familiar flavor; a subtle spice that blended into the masa bread from the scant bean filling. She set the morsel down to winnow chaff from grain, catching her breath from the heat. She wondered what the other flavor was, and why it tugged on her senses so.
“What did you put in these, besides chili?” Ina asked as she took another turn at the mortar and pestle.
“Some rosemary, and slippery ginger,” Leila replied.
Ina stopped grinding and took her last bite, tasting it thoughtfully. “Does that happen to be a really slimy, thumb-sized tuber?” she guessed. Leila nodded, and Ina smiled with glee. “It is here! They’ll be so happy to know!”
“What is here?” Leila asked.
“The sticky stuff. Any chance we can get out of this job early?” Ina asked hopefully.
The wiry westerner wrinkled her brow. “Doubtful.”

Workers came home from the fields earlier, and disappeared into the caves’ cool awhile before they helped put up yesterday’s dried harvest. The masked dancers emerged to move under the filmy shade of the trees. This time, the pantomime of plowing started sooner. The only music was a few eerily soft reed pipes that left ears open to listen for creeping in the shadows. Some swayed a subtle dance to the half-silent music as they carried the harvest into the cave. The last of the sorghum grinding was finished as others fed young fires in open pits, watching the wordless play. Bright streamers fluttered behind the bull horned masks, increasing their speed as the dance finished. Then they took off their masks and flashing streamers and sat down, melting into the crowd of mostly crocodile-dressed villagers.
In the momentary silence, Ina stood and stretched. Many members of the Overland who’d been abroad were gathered around one firepit, their horses and burro standing in the shade behind them. Ina approached, speaking with excitement. “I’ve just tasted a flavor that I haven’t had since the beginning of the dry season. I hardly noticed it, and hardly noticed when I stopped tasting it, until I tasted it again this afternoon.”
She was met with several looks of puzzlement as Leila caught up with her. “I found the Sticky!” she clarified. They met her announcement with enthusiasm equal to her own, and when they had quieted enough, Leila spoke up.
“What are you talking about?” the lean woman wanted to know.
“That little spice root you call slippery ginger,” Ina replied. “In the East, it’s being used in the poultice which sucks out the Fahah‘s poison. Nobody cooks with it anymore.” The botanist paused to give her company a plaintive look. “Anyone have something to eat?”
Samara handed her a bit of fresh coconut meat, then turned to look at Ina’s tall, wiry companion. “Where would we go to get some of the Sticky?” the yellow-tan easterner asked.
“Storehouse keeper,” Leila said simply.

Rosiano was not hard to point out, once Leila caught sight of him in the gathering. He was large-waisted, his short hair greying on the sides. Samara and a few other Overlanders approached his campfire to inquire about the tuber, and the storehouse keeper shook his head. “We don’t have much. Get it in trade, mostly.”
“I think everyone will thank you, if you gave some of it to the healers,” Samara said.
He smiled at her with both his chins, then leaned forward thoughtfully. “I’ll give you a few thumbs and see what happens. It’s always on ships from the North Coast.”
The Overland’s smallest warrioress gave a dark chuckle, catching Rosiano’s eye. “Not for long. Once the healers start using it, it’ll be in short supply.”
“A shortage of slippery ginger?” Leila scoffed.
“Sounds ridiculous, I know,” Zoe said, “but it’s true.”
“Guess the mistress of trade had better tell the North Coast towns to plant extra,” the storehouse keeper turned to speak loudly across his cooking fire, where a blondish, greying woman nodded back to him.

Shortly after the larger meal of fresh sorghum was cooked, the gathering dispersed to their dwellings, eating in the safety of their caves. The occupants of Guardhouse East sat in a meeting-circle, rather than duel before they ate.
“We need to put these new warriors in their right shifts,” Moema said. “Davies has far outskilled the rest of us on third, and so has Wayland, despite his. . . peculiarities.” She glanced to the slight warrior with the stutter.
“We’re keeping the shifts we’re used to,” Fiona said.
“Why has someone who can barely fight been keeping the second shift?” Orival asked her.
“We all kept shifts,” The redhead told him. “Whether we fought or not.”
A woman with strikingly sharp features spoke. “The warrior of your second shift has already beaten the best of us in duels.” Emelita looked at Comet, then to Davies and Wayland. “Each of you ought to move earlier a shift.”
Moema nodded in agreement. “And Fiona should be on third, with the other learners.”
“With respect, second shift is always in need of extra blades,” Comet protested.
Emelita looked at him, her face half in shadow from the lamplight. “Nobody likes to change shifts, especially from the middle one.”
“We can’t always get what we want,” Willies looked at the lean stranger in indigo. “You’re the strongest warrior in guardhouse east, you get to fight the big ones.” The mature, weatherbeaten man’s words held a finality, and Comet nodded in acquiescence.

Late in the first shift, Emelita was badly hurt, and a group helped her to the red cave, where Samara tended and stitched her. She had protected Comet’s back, so he remained with her for the night. He slept at her side, and watched over her in the morning as she began to fever. He was hesitant to head out for the day’s harvesting, but all strong hands were needed in the fields.

It was approaching the heat of the day, and the Overland’s smallest mare had been growing increasingly restless. She danced and turned about as they tried to load another bundle of sorghum-heads onto her back. Zoe’s weak shoulders prevented her from holding Lily steady, and another had to help. The little mare flung her tail to the side and gave a shrill whinny. Across the field, the dark stallion raised his head high and called an eager answer.
Zoe rolled her eyes, holding Lily’s head in her hands. “Oh, not again. I knew something was going on with you.” She looked to the harvesters around her. “Any of you horse-breeders?” They shook their heads, and Zoe sighed. “She was less than willing, last time. I better go find Catalina.”
Soon, Zoe and Marcus, relieved of leading the mare and stallion, were headed back to the town to watch over the drying sorghum while Catalina and Comet managed the increasingly restless beasts. They kept both horses working through the day, keeping the two at opposite ends of the field and making sure never to lead them back to the village together.
When everyone left the fields, the two were at the far ends of the line from each other. Once the horses were unloaded, they were led toward the delta’s edge and let go, a ring of warriors around them to keep slinkers out and the horses in as Lily avoided and fought Rodriguez.

“There is no way that can be allowed to go on inside the Red Cave,” Kachiri looked up from organizing and checking grain for dryness. “They’ll trample and wreck the entire place.”
“Well, can they live in your housecave for a few days?” a man said, with a tinge of sarcasm.
The stout woman rolled her eyes, then sighed. “One horse, I could live with, actually. But they’ll wreck wherever we put them. . . and hurt themselves, if the space is too small.”
“Shouldn’t put anything that smells that good in someone’s house. . . again, we need to find a barn cave,” Arlataan repeated.
“One horse. . . Maybe we could separate them overnight,” Aleandra suggested.
“What if we put one in a guardhouse? Warriors are already waiting for devourers there, so they’d be protected,” Kachiri suggested hopefully.
“Great idea,” Arlataan beamed. “How about fitting a few of the beasts in each one?”
Willies gave them a thoughtful look. “Guardhouse east isn’t as busy, or as full. We could take two horses, as long as it wasn’t those exact two.”
“Both mares should stay in the red cave,” Faron said, “but the other five animals won’t smell quite so good as they.”

After the meal was cooked out in open pits, people retired to their caves at sunset, a tiny sliver of moon hanging in the pink blush of the Western sky. Samara watched over the fevering Emelita until first sleep, when Halix came to sit at the wounded one’s side.
Samara sighed, her tone worried. “She’s been looking like she might convulse. I hope I’ve done her right. It’s a deep enough gash that a master healer should have been the one to stitch her.”
“I’ve been tending her through the day, and I can tell that you’ve done everything right,” The shorn-haired westerner assured her. “You already have the skill of a master healer, you just need more confidence in yourself.”
Samara watched Emelita tremor and moan in a fever-dream. “I hope for her sake that you’re right.”
“The battle is hers to fight,” Halix said, putting a hand on Samara’s shoulder. “You sleep, for now. One’s night shift comes all too soon, when you’re up worrying instead of resting.”
Samara took a breath and nodded, her straight, brown hair shining in the dim lamplight.

Lily was only slightly less combative to Rodriguez’s advances than she had been on the canyon’s edge, and though other experienced horse people stepped up to take turns at their leads over the next few days, the pair left all parties involved thoroughly tired by the time they were separated for the night. Everyone was greatly relieved when stallion’s interest in mare waned; the two had slowed the entire harvesting process a little with their disruptive antics, and attracted extra hatchling slinkers as well.

“Whew! I’m glad that three and a half days is over,” Fiona breathed. She looked across guardhouse east’s dim, white-stained cavern to the burro she’d led over the mountain. The speckled beast turned his flat, mostly white head to look at her, one furry, huge ear focused forward. “Even Bonehead looks relieved,” she grinned.
“I think the horse’s master ought to be allowed to sleep all he wants, tonight,” Davies said. Comet nodded amiably from his seat on the floor, and an agreeing murmur ran through the guardhouse’s personnel.
Willies raised a thickly calloused hand. “If one gets to sleep, then both do,” he jerked his head towards Jedir, the element-pitted skin of his face plainly visible as he turned half-away from the single lamp’s light.
Jedir smiled broadly, and stretched out a leg.

The workers came home earlier each day as more and more of the harvest lay piled and drying in front of the caves of Song, and less stood in the fields. Neal and Davies worked side by side, bundling dry sorghums and taking them into the store-cavern. This time, it so happened that they stepped into an empty cave. They locked eyes, and Neal stole a passionate kiss.
“Let’s get outta here,” Davies whispered. “Go somewhere we can earn our room and board together instead of separately.”
Neal put a hand over Davies’s heart. “It’s not all bad. I’m only earning a place to stay working in the fields, but guarding gets you a place in the guardhouse. You’ll earn pay in the fields, if my guess is right.”
The door creaked open. They quit their hushed conversation and shuffled past the pair of glaring young women. Back in the day’s bright heat, they blinked, eyes adjusting.

“Where would you go from here?” Davies asked as Neal handed him dry seedheads for bundling.
Neal watched his companion deftly tie a bunch together. “I could find work in Reed City. But it might take me onto a ship’s crew.” Davies frowned, testing his knot for security. “You could come with me, if you can row a long day,” Neal told him. “On the West, it’s possible to get from here to there very cheaply on a boat with empty seats, if you’re a steady oarsman. Pay in sweat, and you don’t have to pay in coin and precious stones.”
Davies brightened. “I think I’m going to like the West as much as I liked the East.” He was thoughtfully silent awhile, receiving sorghums into his new pile. “Think Comet will let us copy his map?”
Neal chuckled. “It’s only a conversation piece. It’s not accurate, and the parts we’ve never seen are irrelevant until someone actually goes there and maps it.”
“So? Maybe we’ll want to go somewhere far one day, and we’ll already have a great idea of what’s to come. Even a sketch is better than nothing,” Davies insisted.
Neal shrugged. “Alright, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

The heat of the day was beginning to wane, and the lowering sun’s reflections did a dazzling dance on the sea below. Standing out from the shine were black spots, where jaggy Islets poked above the lowest tide as the Emerald River’s broken and spreading delta crept into a shallow sea. Comet walked with long, easy strides from the main river road. Catalina wasn’t far behind him, her hard Blackleather gleaming in the golden sunshine. They rested a moment, watching the village’s motions as the undried sorghum was piled loosely into the storecavern for the night. This was the day’s last task, and already some were leaving to cook within the safety and cool of their home caves.
“I suppose it’s time to get people’s attention,” Comet said, rising.
Heads turned as Catalina gave a fierce yell, rushing the kilted warrior. Comet drew his blade in surprise, blocking her just in time. He deflected her blow and pushed her away. She scuffled backwards, kicking up dust, then charged him again. Comet successfully held his own against the Overland’s fiercest warrioress for a little while before she put him flat on his back in the grey sand. Her sword still pointed at his heart, she looked around. Their duel had successfully caught the attention of most of Song, though many were frowning in disapproval.
“Listen up!” she called, her husky voice echoing vaguely off the low, jagged cave-town’s ridge. “This one has something that everyone needs to learn, especially the warriors and healers.” Catalina sheathed her blade and pulled Comet up, gaze still fixed on the surprised gathering.
Comet dusted himself off. “That wasn’t what I had in mind, exactly,” he told her as the group re-gathered into a circle, and someone headed off to the red cave to fetch healers and wounded warriors not present.
“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” Catalina said. Comet half smiled and gave an amiable shrug.
“That was uncalled for,” the elder Paola scolded, glaring at them. “There is to be no open fighting on our communal grounds. Such roughness belongs in the guardhouses, and should stay there.”
“Sorry.” Catalina looked at the dirt, but as she turned to sit among her comrades, smiled broadly.

Comet paced and stretched, calming his body again as a few rejoined the gathering. He sat near the center of the ring of people, before the cluster of healers and wounded. In the relative silence, he took a long breath. His mood was solemn as he reached into a little pouch on his kilt, made of leather and turtleshell. He looked to Halix and Kachiri first, a small, roundish, pale-green leaf laying across his palm. “Do you know this plant?”
“Bitterpoison.” Kachiri said. “Deadly, but tastes so bad nothing swallows it anyway.”
Comet smiled, his wild curls shining like gold in the lowering sun. “Nothing except Dragons.” His dark eyes passed a piercingly intense glance over all. “They call it Entomtos.” As he said the word, the listeners felt a deep, dead calm pass over their heads. “The green Sleep like Death. One leaf will put a full-sized Motek out for long enough to stitch a deep wound shut, and with creatures our size. . .” Comet drew a skinning knife from his belt and sliced at the stem-end, placing the leaf and tiny cut piece on a stray scrap of sorghum leaf that lay on the ground. “It only takes a Pinch.” He washed the knife and his fingers with a few drops from his canteen, and offered the dry sorghum scrap tray to Halix. He and Kachiri leaned in close to see the bit that he’d cut. As it was passed around, there was much squinting, shaking of heads and murmuring of doubt.
“A leaf is rolled up and put under the tongue when a warrior is direly wounded,” Samara said, loud enough for all to hear. She let Comet’s weighty gaze lock her eyes. “A bite that tiny is swallowed, if the fallen one feels his life slipping away,” Samara continued. “The plant stops you, for a few minutes. And sometimes, a few minutes is hope for life, or certain death. Each warrior and healer carries two leaves in a hard turtle pouch, just in case. Dragonswort leaves the body fast, and washes easily with water. But you must never mix the Sleep, with the Sticky,” her words ended in a note as heavily solemn as Comet’s mood.
There was silence, and Comet lowered his gaze, releasing the young healer. The leaf was making it’s way back to him, and when he received it, he held it in his lap, taking slow breaths. “Samara, will you keep count for me?”
Samara had suspected he would ask that question, yet even still, her heart jumped into her throat. She nodded.
“You’re as crazy as a monkey fucking a knot-hole!” The exclamation was Bridgit’s. “You said you were only going to do that once!”
Comet chuckled. “I was only going to do what I did in Flora once. When I first arrived, I didn’t know how to use the Plant fresh, and I had no one else familiar to keep count for me.” He nodded deeply. “Now, I know, and I’m not the only one with that knowledge. The Overland has used it in battle, with life-saving success.” A murmuring restlessness ran through the crowd. Comet’s heart sank. He wasn’t going to gain anyone’s trust here, if they already knew he was different and his own companions berated him so.
There was a movement beside him, and a voice. “I’ll do it.”
Comet half smiled, relieved. He laid the sorghum leaf on the ground and graciously moved over to let Diogo sit before it. “You should still keep the count,” he said to Samara.
Diogo took a few deep breaths, interlocked his fingers and cracked his knuckles in a stretch in front of him. He lifted the sorghum scrap, picked up the minute slice of Dragonswort with the tip of his tongue and swallowed. Comet scooted forward to catch his limp body, and Samara tapped two fingertips in the sand, staring in concentration at the warrior.
“Listen to his heart, and feel for his breath,” Comet urged Song’s healers. Halix and Kachiri laid their ears to the scar-laced warrior’s chest briefly. Both a gave plaintive look as the assistants and apprentices each took their turns. “He is nearly stopped, but not quite,” Comet’s voice was soft.
The one who’s ear was currently laid against Diogo’s chest nodded. Kachiri listened again, listened for longer, while another held a polished, dark stone against his mouth, watching for the moisture of exhalation.
They took longer turns, noting his slowed rhythms. Eventually, his body began to speed up and Samara gave a nod. Comet backed them away with a hand as Diogo rapidly revived. He gasped a few big breaths, opened his eyes and sat up from his slump in Comet’s arms. The stocky warrior turned to give a puzzled look, and Comet chuckled. “Next time, remember to lay down first.”
Diogo grunted, took a bow and rose, walking back to his place in the group of Overlanders as if nothing at all had happened.
“That’s it?” Kachiri watched him go. “He’s just ate bitterpoison, and he’s perfectly fine?”
“Respect her power, and she won’t hurt you.” Comet placed another little leaf on the scrap of sorghum with careful reverence, pushing it toward Samara. She took both and tucked them in her own little, hard pouch.
“I’ve found a place where they grow. Tomorrow I will show you, if you don’t already know,” Comet said. He rose, nodding to those he passed, and strode toward the red cave.

It was midday and only a few remained abroad, in the last corner of the last field. Everyone was tired, eager for the work to be done. Davies trudged toward Song’s caverns with an early group, hot and tired from working and guarding for a week. He stopped in the red cave to cool off before taking his turn with the drying harvest.
Glad to be washed and out of his armor for a minute, Davies watched Comet converse with Kachiri. They parted ways with purposeful movements, and Davies rose to catch him.
“Can we copy your map?” the thick warrior asked hopefully.
Comet smiled broadly. He fetched it from his pack, laying the somewhat flattened roll of parchment in Davies’s hands before returning to his outbound direction. Others were coming home now, people and animals laden with the last of the harvest.
Davies showed Neal the map with an eager grin, and the cartographer let his horse go with another. They moved under a shade tree that sheltered a little date palm as Neal unrolled it. Aside from a notation of the volcano symbol, there was no key or any kind of gridding. Words indicated the type of ecosystem in various areas, and many towns were labeled, but that was it. Neal frowned. “There isn’t even an indication of North,” he lamented.
“North is up. We know that,” Davies said.
Neal sighed and rose. A party of warriors and healers was gathering in preparation to find patches of Dragonswort, and he found Comet among them.
“What kind of distortion did you use on this map?” Neal asked, the document half-unrolled in his hands.
Comet looked up into the tree’s little-leafed branches in thought. “That brought on by the ardors of a two-week long flight. Also, there’s always a certain amount of distortion associated with memory, though in the map’s case it’s likely in the memory’s transfer through myself. The Dragons’ Mind does not forget.”
Neal shook his head hopelessly. “That is not what I meant. You have to distort the picture somehow when you put a piece of the round earth on a flat surface.”
Comet shrugged. “I have copied a number of maps, but I’m not a maker.”
Neal sighed. “At least, tell me what this bar-and-ex is supposed to be?”
“The abode of the Deathless One.” Comet’s tone was weighty. He looked at his sketchy drawing, and closed his eyes momentarily. “. . . and I think the tip of Africa was about here?” He indicated the narrowest point of the long Northern peninsula.
“I suppose that helps a little,” Neal conceded eventually. “And the vague outlines out to sea?”
“Sunken lands,” Comet said.
“Weedy seas,” Neal agreed. Then his eyes found a little dot, with a name. “A sunken city? Is it something the dragons saw?”
Comet shook his head. “They remember where it was, and the land’s still shaped similarly enough. But the city’s been dead since long before it froze over or sank.”
Neal nodded. It was only a point of historic reference to dragons, and he needn’t include it. After a wash and a rest, Neal sat at the base of a tree among sorghum sorters with map, blank parchment, and a sharpened bit of charcoal. His ink and paints lay in their case nearby, yet he found himself simply staring at Comet’s penciled map, unable to begin his own sketch.
Davies sat beside him after a while. “It’s really splendid, compared to the scratch-marks I used to see among drifters. I’ll do it, if you want,” he offered. “But I can’t read, so you’ll have to write in the words.”
“I’m not interested in making a sketch into a scratch mark,” Neal said flatly.
“I’m actually good at drawing,” Davies’ tone was hurt.
Neal sighed, and glanced at him apologetically. “I’ll figure out how to make it into a real map, yet,” he said with determination.
It was getting on in the afternoon by the time the cartographer had sketched out the necessary grids, distortions and shape. He laid it on the ground and leaned back to admire it, finally satisfied after many frustrations. His copy looked like a proper map now, and he could begin putting paint to skin. Neal looked at the lowering sun as the villagers packed up their half-dried harvest for the night. The hardest part was done, but he would have to continue the work tomorrow. He had hope that it’s painting would be easier.

copyright Melanie Degen