Servants and Followers (The Legends of Arria, Volume 2) Page 10

  But Habala had not known everything that the Old Man had known about, and so Habala had trusted Smidge enough to have him work at the inn, as Geda had suggested, and Brigga did not dare say anything against Smidge, especially since that might have revealed too much about the Old Man’s involvement in those affairs. So Brigga had remained silent for all of these years, trusting that Habala knew the best way to run her life, and for the most part, nothing seemed to have gone wrong between Smidge, Habala, and Geda as they took care of the inn, and the boys Basha and Oaka had been born and grew up there. But now that Basha and Oaka were gone, it seemed that life between Geda, Habala, and Smidge had reverted back to the old dynamic of their youth, which was not very healthy, and Habala was caught up in the middle of it all.

  Brigga was worried about her former best friend, and even though Brigga had not really spoken to Habala for years now, on friendly terms at least, she still did not want Habala to face Smidge’s wrath. Which led Brigga to question what she could do to help Habala, and distract Smidge, possibly to find out more about Smidge’s motivations and intentions, which led her to contemplate doing something horrible and disgusting that she could not stand, and yet it might be her only choice when she was not like the Old Man or her daughter, able to sneak around and spy on others like a cat in the night. She had very few options and very few abilities when it came to deceit and spying, and so she had to make do with what she had, may the gods forgive her.

  Kala’s ghost stared out the window of the Old Man’s hut at the forest outside as the Old Man entered. “Lilacs.” She murmured to herself, shaking her head. “Those were the last flowers he left at my grave. That’s not what I wanted.” She said.

  “What is it?” The Old Man asked, staring at her. “What do you want? What are you doing here?”

  “Basha has the Black Sword.” She said, sighing to herself.

  “What? Are you sure?” He asked, staring at her.

  “I am positive; I felt it on the other side. We all did.” Kala said, closing her eyes. “It was like a breath of fresh air in the land of death. It was brief, but stirring, the tiger of light is stirring. He lives. We all felt it and I knew it was my son. I thought that you would want to know.” She said, about to fade away and return to the other side.

  “Wait a minute,” The Old Man said, raising his hand.

  She brightened a little bit, lingering as she asked, “What is it?”

  “Will you tell me what it is like…dying and being dead?” He asked.

  Kala frowned. “You have not asked me this question before.” She said.

  He hesitated. “I have been afraid to ask you this question before now, I suppose, but now I am wondering.” He said.

  She sighed. “Dying and being dead…well, speaking from my own experience, first the world fades away from your eyes, bit by bit and piece by piece. Then you start to fade away…it is a bit like falling asleep, except that you lose everything, in an excruciatingly slow manner. Bit by bit and piece by piece in your body, heart, and mind, all thoughts, feelings, and sensations are ripped away from you and you are left with nothing in the end except your final breath, and then even that is gone. But something yet remains.”

  “What is it?” The Old Man asked, spellbound for once in his long, long lifetime, the audience instead of the storyteller.

  “It is quite literally nothingness, a small spark or flame, barely noticeable or recognizable to any who still live, just a single molecule of…infinity, one might say.” Kala said. “A soul or an idea of one, perhaps, that cannot be weighed, measured, or judged, though that has yet to be determined by me.”

  “No judgment?” The Old Man asked.

  She frowned. “Perhaps there is a system in place somewhere in death that does judge or determine what happens to souls, but I have yet to find it. Perhaps I do not want to find it.” She remarked. “I might be judged unwillingly so and be found wanting. I have done some ill things in my life, not as bad as some, but not as good as so many others.” She remarked.

  “I am sure there was some necessity or reason to it.” The Old Man said.

  “That is what many people would say if they were in my situation,” Kala stared at him. “I may have been forced into doing what I should not have done at one or two points in my life, but in other times, I could have stopped myself. It might have meant my death, or the death of others, but I could have stopped myself. So why did I not?

  “Perhaps I reasoned my way out of it, saying that it was necessary, that I had to do it to survive or to help other people, but ultimately, it was my choice. My actions.” She insisted. “I did not stop myself because I wanted to act. I wanted to make the choice that ultimately would lead to my desire or my goal.” She smiled to herself. “I had a goal, a desire, so many of them, in fact, that I wanted more than anything else in the world. Nothing would stand in my way. Not even being judged.” Kala looked up at the Old Man. “What reason or desire, what necessity or goal, can survive death and what lies beyond death?”

  “Yours did.” The Old Man said. “You came to me to tell me about your son.”

  “A form of my desires and goals did survive, fragmented, to say the least.” She nodded. “The most powerful desires or goals might survive death, but they are elusive and illusionary at the best of times, difficult to express. At the worst of times, well, they might as well not exist for me.” She shrugged and told him, “Everything else slips away from you, and over time, even those most powerful goals and desires might fade away. Then I would not be myself anymore and I would forget about Basha, and anyone else I loved.”

  After a moment of silence, the Old Man asked, “So then what happens, on the other side, to the soul?”

  “It moves on into darkness, and then continues on through darkness, for however long the earth turns.” Kala said. “Then it becomes chaotic and confused, as so many souls collide and crush into one another, mixing and melding with one another before they are ‘bumped’ out of the chaotic darkness and into the light. This happens every so often to each soul, with different results.

  “On occasion, a soul will return to the living, either as a ghost like me, or even more rarely, to be reborn in the form of another person. Most often, when a soul is bumped out of the chaos, they float up to what I would call the true Pidamana, or paradise.” She smiled. “This is more serene than the chaos below, less crowded, where one is able to recollect who they once were. Here is where you truly get to meet the other souls in death, including those you once knew in life. That is a good moment, but a fleeting one, for eventually you will float back down into the chaotic darkness below, but only for a short while, before you are ‘bumped’ out of it again.” She frowned. “Death is unstable, in constant flux, more so than life, really. You can never be truly satisfied in death. What do you think?” She asked.

  The Old Man stared at her. “I am not sure.” He managed to say, still stunned.

  “Of course, that is my impression of it,” She remarked, turning away from him. “It might be different for others. Can I go now?” She asked. “Now that I want to return, exactly, but I belong there now, not here.” She closed her eyes. “Too many painful remainders in life that are not in death, yet part of me wishes to live again.”

  “You may return.” The Old Man managed to say. “Good luck, Kala.”

  “Thank you. You, too.” Kala said as she vanished once more, leaving the Old Man alone.

  Chapter 6: Joining

  Cradle and shield me from the storm, I

  Do not think I can go out there again. Hear

  Her whisper sweet lullabies in my ear. I believe

  I could listen to her for a thousand years.

  On A Stormy Day, Kiwata

  Basha woke up and groaned, rubbing his forehead as he remembered…he was on a bed. Why was he on a bed with…lavender satin sheets? He thought, examining the sheets he lied in. Brown bear fur cover…and lavender satin sheets, never had he lied in such a bed with such comfort. This was fit
for a king or a nobleman, certainly not for…he blinked as he remembered what he had been doing. Oh, Tau, Popo, Loqwa, what had he done? He shook his head, trying to forget, but those men bleeding…he blanched again, and started to sway, but steadied himself as he thought that it was done, it was done, whatever he had done, and there was nothing to be done about it in the end.

  He had no idea where he was. He got off the bed and stood up, a little unsteady, but he had to try and find his way out of here, to get back to Oaka. His hands brushed up against curtains, pink silk and satin curtains surrounded the bed, and then he pushed them aside. Fine porcelain dolls and plates were mounted on top of a mantelpiece. He was in a sitting room, plush rose chairs placed about a carpeted rug, never had he seen…what was this place? Was he still in Coe Anji?

  Basha shook his head, and went around a table, searching for the door. He found it, tucked into the corner by the bookcase, and opened it to walk outside, on grass and sand. He was by the ocean. Basha stared at the water in the distance, the waves rolling in, and remembered how he had thought of it as a pond. He laughed at that, thinking…oh, it was so much wider and bigger than that. The waves alone were surging in at least all across the horizon before him, and the water stretched out farther and farther beyond that horizon toward the gray sky. Popo and Quela were said to be joined by water, and the water here certainly touched ‘the mountain of magnificence’ that was the sky, with cloud cover like ice and snow upon gray stone. He had never dreamed…suddenly, he saw a figure standing alone amidst all this nature on the shoreline, close to the trickle of the waves sweeping across the sand. He stared at this woman, who was not Monika, standing before an easel and painting on the canvas set up there.

  He went down towards her, a woman who appeared older than his mother Habala. She had lines across her face, streaks of gray and white in her brown hair. Paint was splattered onto her chest, her shirt. She was dabbling at her palette with a paint-bush in an attempt to get the right color, mixing blue and green with a bit of black and white. She got the mixture right, and then started painting in the waves; the ocean would occupy about half of her canvas, with some cloud cover. The house he assumed she lived in, the one he had just came from, was already on the far left corner, a bit of the town of Coe Anji and the warehouses that made up its port already behind that. The lonely little cottage by the sea, not far from the harsh, brutal town. Basha got a little bit of perspective as he came closer, noticing that she was definitely taller than him by a few inches, about as tall as or taller than Oaka.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but can you tell me what I am doing here?” He asked.

  “Hello, Basha, is it?” She asked, still painting. “My name is Jona. I live there, you know, just where you came from. You were brought here by some men, a Border Guard patrol, and the major told me to look after you. He’s an old friend of mine. Your brother, Oaka, I think, has gone to the inn where you two were staying, to bring the horses, supplies, and belongings. I think he is most insistent that you three, the falcon included, should leave here as soon as possible.” She said, smiling.

  “Are we in some kind of trouble?” He asked.

  “No, I don’t think so,” She said, still painting. “The major seems to have the impression you helped out in whatever mission he was patrolling on, so you’re free to go, whatever you have done. Your brother just wants to leave, I think. He’s also worried about the horses and supplies, I believe, getting stolen.”

  “There was another…”

  “The girl?” Jona asked, smiling. “The girl left, I’m afraid, but she also left…” She frowned. “It’s wrapped up in a blanket, I believe, near the corner of my bedroom. I could not touch it, could not even stand to look at it, I just left it there. You should find it, if you want it. I might throw it out into the ocean if you don’t take it with you when you leave here.”

  Basha hesitated, and then slowly nodded. “I’ll take it.” He said. “And there was something else...” He hesitated again before continuing, “There were people we helped to rescue, people...who had been smuggled in?” He asked.

  Jona stopped painting and stared at him. “You mean…so that’s what it was all about,” She said, nodding. “I know smugglers sometimes take to human trafficking when it is a profitable business. Sometimes people want to come to Arria when they believe that it is a better place than where they came from, but when they cannot by conventional means for any amount of reasons, including money, sometimes they sell themselves into slavery to afford the trip. But others are forced into it, kidnapped, by the smugglers to fulfill their quota.” Jona scoffed, and shook her head. “There were some girls I knew who were kidnapped,” Jona said, when Basha couldn’t speak, “and they still had nightmares about the whole ordeal. It is a long, arduous voyage, across sea and ocean much rougher than this, and they had to spend the whole voyage down below, in the bilge water seeping in through the cracks. They oftentimes were scared half out of their wits, sick, and quiet, too quiet, afraid to speak or cry out, in case one of their kidnappers came down.”

  Basha shuddered, and then asked, “So what did…what will happen to those people?”

  “Most likely they will be sent back to their homes,” Jona said. “Some will stay if they have proof that they can work a trade, or have family here in Arria.”

  “That’s after everything…” He stuttered and then sighed, shaking his head at the indignity of it all.

  He didn’t know if he could do or say anything here that would change such a horrible situation, especially when it had been going on for so long, and he knew that Oaka wouldn’t want to stay here and get involved in solving a long-term problem. But Basha felt like something had to be done, to stop the smuggling and help those in need who had already been affected by it. Perhaps the Border Guards might be able to handle part of the situation on their own, if they could get themselves better organized and trained to arrest the smugglers and cease their activities, but the situation might also require less force and more care when it came to the people who had been transported already.

  “What about the smugglers?” Basha asked. “Are they...dead?”

  “I don’t know, probably one or two, why?” She asked. “Did you fight them?”

  “I did.” He said, and gulped. “A few…fell down, I didn’t know whether or not I had…killed them.”

  Jona sighed. “You were defending yourself and your friends, I assume.” She said. “Just think on that, and the people that you saved. Not just those now, but those that could have been, would have been, taken away from their homes if the smugglers had lived.” She said. “Perhaps the smugglers deserved to die. Think on that, and perhaps that will ease your mind.”

  “Perhaps.” Basha said, looking out at the ocean.

  “You remind me of…” She shook her head.

  “What? Whom?” He asked.

  “My son, Jobe.” She said.

  “Jobe?” Basha repeated, and a thought or memory stirred in the back of his mind, though he could not exactly recall it at the moment.

  “That’s right, Jobe. I have a son, somewhere, named Jobe. He’s all grown up now, older than you, possibly by a few years. I do not know where he is exactly, because he travels around a lot. Hopefully he will be with his father,” She said. “Hopefully he will be safe.”

  Basha and Jona stood there for a while, Jona adding an outline of Basha looking out at the ocean to her painting, before Oaka returned with the horses and supplies. Fato, perched on the pommel of a saddle, was with him, and clamoring about the fight and its aftermath. Basha had thought that the falcon might have left them, though, with the way that he had acted before during the fight. But apparently he couldn’t be repelled that easily, and at least Oaka was not complaining about Fato at the moment.

  “Goodbye, Jona.” Basha said to her before turning away.

  “Don’t forget your…whatever it is, Basha, and do be careful. I saw that girl before she left, and she looked hard. And scared. I’ve seen many girls lik
e that after…whatever happened to them.” She said.

  He stared at her, wondering what she meant, and what sort of life she had led before he came here, before he waved goodbye to her, the painter he knew little about, and went inside her home one last time to search for the blanket-wrapped burden he had to take. There was the sword he had picked up earlier today at the warehouse, inside its sheath once more and wrapped up tightly like someone had wanted to hide it, and he wondered what could have possibly possessed him to claim this sword, to bind it to him, or whatever he had said. He did not know what he was doing at the time, half-lost in the blur of battle, and then…what had made Monika bring this sword back to him? Did she know something of what he had done to make it belong to him; did she want him to have it then?

  And why couldn’t she have brought it here as it was, inside its sheath, without wrapping it up so tightly? Did she feel something of what he had felt? Maybe there was something to hiding it, to not wanting to touch or see it. Perhaps no one else could bear it besides him.

  He shuddered at that frightening thought, but then he took it with him, though, just in case. If it had saved him and his friends once before…perhaps he needed it.

  Oaka did not look at him when he put the blanket-wrapped sheathed sword inside his bag, layers upon layers of protection against the sharp edges of the curved blade. They left Coe Anji, and the cottage by the ocean, behind them then, going out into the forest once more.

  “Two very long, hard days,” Oaka said, shaking his head. “It’s impossible that we went through all of that in just two days.”

  It was midnight, officially the 12th day of Markee now, and they had stopped to rest at last. They had gone this far, for this long, because it was early evening when they had left Coe Anji, and Oaka had wanted to keep going, to put as many miles between themselves and it, throughout most of the night. Basha thought he wanted to forget about what had happened back there.