IN THE TWO first days of the journey, Isaiah was pleased not to encounter any major surprises. First there were fields. A great many of them, and so, he took the opportunity to gather some vegetables. After that, he encountered small-sized lakes and plain forests with far fewer trees than when they’d ridden from the north. Mostly, the path ahead was an open, predictable road of nothing much at all. It didn’t rain, but there were mild winds that turned chilly during the evenings (making him wish he hadn’t thrown the bearskin away so carelessly). Still, he was yet to find himself truly distressed, and pleased not to have met anything but a few refugees and merchants. It was only on the second evening, as he searched his pack for his book to scribble down potentially useful membranes from his lectures, he encountered his first preoccupation. He’d already discovered that the guards had taken his knife. His book, they’d quite unsurprisingly not cared for, and as his hands browsed for it, he noticed that its cover felt strange. It was no longer leathery. It was no longer the same size – in fact, it was not his book at all. Squinting at it in the moonlight he saw it was not among the ones he’d attempted to read either. No, it was the book. He looked at it in disbelief, realizing he’d browsed the pack the Master had given him and not the one he’d left with Indra. Had he decided to give it to him after all? Had he hidden it there for him to find on his way? Before he could consider what Mongoya might gain from doing this in secret (other than the thrill he seemed to feel from being ahead of everyone else), he noticed a small piece of paper sticking out from its side.
“Dear, Isaiah
What you now hold in between your hands is of higher value than words could ever tell you. So, first of all, you are welcome – this is the book you wanted to read. Secondly, I must apologize for giving it to you in this manner. I’ve made a thief of you against your will, and there is no reason you should ever forgive me for this. This book is said to be a source of the truth of all things. After having given up looking for it, I finally found it the day before you left. As to where, is not so important, but let us say I was surprised – such as you might find yourself surprised right now.
How will you use it? — I do not know. It is written in a foreign language I do not know myself, and I don’t expect you to know it either. Still, as I know you are cleverer than you think, I am sure you’ll find a way to interpret what it says. I felt it needed to be given to you, and if nothing else I’ve tried teaching you these past days has helped, I pray this will. Take care, and when you come back – please blame me if you must. I now owe you both my hands as well as my ears.
Your friend, Devus”
Isaiah wasn’t sure if he should feel angry or grateful for his gesture. He opened what seemed to be very old (if not ancient) scriptures. The alphabet was common Araktéan, but still no less comprehensive. No matter how precious it might be, it seemed useless for him to carry it around – not to say dangerous. He wouldn’t lose an ear if the Master found out about this, he would lose his fingers, or Devus would. More likely than not, they’d lose all twenty of them, as Master Mongoya had the tendencies and ruthlessness of a nostalgic traditionalist. There, alone in the dark, with the most precious book in Araktéa – one he’d so desperately had wanted to find – he heard himself laughing.
“Oh Devus, what have you done?” He asked out into the air, regaining his breath. He tried to comprehend how someone he’d thought to be so exceptionally bright, had stolen this treasure and given it to him. An incompetent nobody. Raziel Mongoya was perhaps not a noble, but Isaiah had a feeling that stealing from him (stealing this particular thing from him) was much more foolish than it was bold. More foolish even than blindly following some day-dream insight. Even more foolish than stealing a noble man’s cape and giving it to a fragile, little boy. “Perhaps I am cursed to be surrounded by stupidity,” he thought, but he still didn’t feel the fury he thought he ought to. Perhaps because he was still far away – both from Nagár and the Parda. Perhaps because, despite the loonacy and unlikeliness of it all, having found yet another piece of his insight – his long since vision, gave him some confidence he’d find the third one as well. The one he was truly looking for. A beautiful, lost mind searching for rescue. His own flesh and blood.
*
With the path he’d chosen, Isaiah expected to ride through a similar landscape for a few more days before reaching the beginning edge of the mountains. Instead, the ground started changing around mid-day, and shortly, there was nothing but a strange, powdery, ground surrounding them. “This must be the place they call the Dunes,” he thought. Looking at the map he’d been given, it stated nothing but the word “sand”. A place deprived of anything even resembling a path, it indicated it was not a particularly large area, and so, seeing it was wider than it was long, he decided to ride straight through it. After many hours battling through its winds and doing his best to ignore the dead remains of horses and riders, he finally stumbled upon a town. Small and isolated in the middle of the Dunes’ nothingness. Riding towards it at full speed, chased by a deep, red sunset that would have been magnificent if his eyes hadn’t been fixed southwards, he soon learned it was even more lifeless than any other village in Nahbí. Clearly depopulated, he thought the risk of entering a plagued home was better than entering no home at all – and most certainly, better than joining the dry, fleshless bones.
He left Indra unbound after giving her some water and walked into the first house to the right (a small home of brick and clay), and just before falling asleep on the stone floor from fatigue and dizziness, he saw a shade at the edge of his left eye. The sight got him up abruptly, and he saw it came from a small girl dressed in a white linen dress. Her physique made her look no older than ten, but she had the calm eyes of someone older. Large and clear as ice. Her hair was the same golden colors as parts of the dunes bore, braided down along her narrow back.
“What are you doing in our house?” She asked softly.
“I… I am so sorry, miss, I didn’t think anyone was here. I’ll leave straight away.”
“Go where? It is late and there’s a curfew, Sir.”
“I… I don’t know where.” Isaiah stuttered.
“You can stay here I think.”
“Okay,“ he said hesitantly. “Thank you.”
“Your accent is strange. Are you from far away?” The girl smiled, her little head tilted to the right.
“Yes, I’m from a place called Delta.”
“I don’t know this place.”
“Of course, she wouldn’t know.” Isaiah thought. Villagers hardly had much sense of geography beyond the miles surrounding their town – which in this exact place would mean, nothing but this dreadful sand area.
“It’s far away. Many miles north from here.” He explained.
“You must be tired then, Sir.”
“I am.” He admitted, rubbing his eyes.
“I am tired too, but I can’t sleep.”
“Are… are your mum and dad sleeping?”
“I have no mum anymore, but my father is sleeping. He sleeps a lot nowadays…”
“And you don’t think he would mind me staying the night?” The girl shook her head seriously.
“He doesn’t mind anything, really.” She assured him, then she took a step closer with a shy smile on her face.
“Do you mind reading me a story?”
“I don’t really know any… good stories, I’m afraid.”
“I am sure you do. Travelers and drifters always do – and there is no need to be afraid, Sir.”
“Yes, well. I guess I am not a really good traveler.” Isaiah admitted, rubbing his fingers towards his temples.
“If so, why don’t you read one from the book that you brought?”
“My… oh. You saw that.” She nodded. He’d brought it inside with him and left it on the little, wooden table, wanting to keep it as close to him as possible.
“It’s quite pretty.”
“I guess it is.” He said, looking at its brown binding. Old, but firm. Not common leather, but some other animalistic material he didn’t recognize.
“What is your name?”
“Isaiah Aronin.”
“Isaiah…” the girl repeated. She had a delightful smile on her face, and Isaiah never thought he’d heard anyone saying it so sweetly or so softly before.
“That is a beautiful name. Mine is Amelia.” He almost felt himself blushing, but the heat in his cheeks felt different than usual. More like a fever. Strange and almost overbearing.
“That is a beautiful name too.”
“It isn’t – not really. It means hard work.”
“Oh.” He responded dumbly, his head aching increasingly.
“Please read to me, Isaiah. My father always reads to me before sleeping, but he’s asleep himself now, and I’m too tired to be awake and need to hear a story.”
“I don’t think you’ll like this book very much…”
“I’ll be the one to judge that.” She said, her tone suddenly making her sound ten years older than she looked.
“If you insist, then.” He sighed. If he could get away with staying the night, he’d show her the unreadable pages. Amelia nodded contently before sitting down next to him. As unworried as a tame lamb. Smiling as if he’d been her long-lost brother. He understood right there and then that he really liked children. Their innocence. That fierce curiosity he was uncertain of when he himself had lost, and perhaps was on an inevitable course of rediscovering – redefining. On the other hand, there was something very uncomfortable about the expectations of a child. Too close to disappointment and oftentimes impossible to fulfill.
“Try this page.” Amelia said, opening the book somewhere close to the end.
“Normally, you should start at the beginning of the story, don’t you think?”
“Yes. But sometimes, you should start in the middle or the end instead – you can also make it up yourself as you go. That’s what my father says.”
“Your father sounds like an interesting man. Very well, let’s see what it says.” Looking at the page, he was tempted to make it up as he went, but his mind was much too tired for any creative play of words.
“I’m sorry, Amelia. It seems I can’t read this language.”
“Maybe I can.” She suggested.
“Oh?”
“Maybe, but I can’t read you see.”
“What if I read the words out loud as clearly as possible. Could you maybe understand it?”
“We could try that.” Amelia shrugged easily.
“Okay. Let’s see, Sri fraku persinova estilp broch harisn arom. Lemmu serina faruk persin shanatti heravo bicsi oldovo.” He read the first line, and the words felt strange on the tip of his tongue – numbing, like overripe fruit in a dry mouth. Amelia looked at him attentively.
“That translates to – The elements’ whisperers will grow louder once he opens the gates. Fear not the pain of the departed as their cycles are completed...” Isaiah turned towards her, no attempt in trying to hide his astonishment. She couldn’t possibly have made something like that up.
“I don’t think you like this story. It scares you, doesn’t it? We can stop.” She reassured him. Her voice was like that of a mother speaking to a child.
“How do you know this language, Amelia?”
“It’s Birdú. I’ve always known it. At least I think I always did... but maybe I remember it wrong.” She said thoughtfully.
“Amelia, could you… could you maybe translate more of it for me?”
“Yes, but not right now. I’m so tired, aren’t you?” Isaiah nodded – he was in fact very tired. Despite the excitement of – at the very least – having translated something from the book, he suddenly felt he was barely able to keep his eyes open. Dozing off on the floor’s carpet, he could see the girl moving towards what he suspected to be the bedroom, and though he doubted her father would be as calm about a stranger inviting himself in, he couldn’t find the strength to worry right then. Closing his eyes, he simply hoped she would speak in his defense if needed be.
Waking up some time later, he gasped for air with a sudden alertness about his surroundings. It was dark out still – almost uncomfortably so, and the wind was vile and hollow in its calls. He’d always thought the south to be mild, but he felt cold. Terribly cold, as if the sun hadn’t been up for days.
“Amelia?” He asked, annoyed for having allowed himself to sleep in there – on their floor like some beggar or a bandit. A man who thought it a good idea to begin a story in the end or the middle, most likely wouldn’t listen to any excuses before hitting him in the head with a spade.
“I’m here.” Amelia’s voice came from their kitchen. He found her sitting by a tiny table. Her hands tied around her legs and a gloom alertness on her little face.
“Did you get any sleep?”
“I’m not sure. I kept thinking about the story.”
“It was just two sentences. Better not to think too much about it.”
“Some stories are short, Isaiah. But I think this one might be very long. So long it seems exhausting to even start it. Maybe that’s why everyone is so tired now...” she said, clearly preoccupied with these strange and unchildlike thoughts.
“Your father is still asleep?” She nodded.
“To tell you the truth, I think he might be ill.”
“Has there been a doctor to see him? A healer?”
“No. Not for a very long time…” Her big eyes were filled with great concern, and Isaiah felt a sting in his chest.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine.” He said, or rather, he lied for he wasn’t sure – far from it. He’d never wanted to be the sort of adult that lied to children either, but it was perhaps too easy of a thing to be avoided in circumstances like these.
“Would you mind checking on him?”
“I am no doctor, Amelia. And I don’t think he would like me to wake him up at this hour.” He searched the room for a clock, but there was none.
“Please. As I said, he doesn’t mind anything. He only sleeps – all the time. I would really like you to see him.” He felt chills down his spine as she said it, and he wondered – wondered if he’d been sleeping in a dead man’s house.
“That’s the bedroom?” He asked, pointing to the door she’d walked through earlier. She nodded.
“Alright. I will go and check on him.”
“He keeps a knife in there, but he doesn’t want it anymore.”
“A knife?” Isaiah asked, suddenly more alert, as it could be an awfully bad idea if the father was actually alive.
“Yes. But don’t worry, it is only made for protection. It has never cut through anything, and he wouldn’t hurt you with it either.”
“Just like the one I was once gifted,“ Isaiah thought. It was probably not unused anymore.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. And you can have the knife, it will be good for protection on your travels. He normally keeps it underneath the madras.” The thought of touching a corpse repulsed him, but he did need a knife if he was to get through the thorn-bush and defend himself from whatever might come after – if he reached there and if he got through it, that was. The disturbingly clear memory of Tzelem’s wounds, told him a sword would’ve been much preferable for the task. He should have thought about that while in Nagár, gone to a blacksmith while he could instead of being so eager to leave.
“Alright then.” He sighed, deciding that a dead man’s knife would have to do.
Isaiah opened the door slowly. It quirked as an old door usually would, and he carefully peeked into the room. It was small, just like the rest of the house – rooming no more than two beds, a coat-stand (without coats or any other clothing), and a mull-eaten rug in dull colors. It only had one window with a thin curtain covering it. Though it was closed, it felt even chillier there than it had in their common room. He wasn’t sure how he’d expected death to smell like, but thought the room didn’t smell like anything at all. He took a step towards the bed where Amelia’s father was laying, and his widely opened eyes confirmed his suspicions. They were the same as his daughter’s, and though drier and less vivid, the color was still as bright blue as a cloudless sky. His hands were gracefully crossed above his chest (much like Devus slept, he noted), and more speckled than even a lifetime of harvesting could do to a man. Still, the skin of his face was clear – not gray as he’d heard a dead or plagued man ought to be. Rather tanned, from hour-less days of working under the sun. Isaiah wondered how long he’d laid there for. How much he’d suffered from his illness and felt a sudden sadness rushing through him. It came with an unexplainable knowing that he’d not been a fool like he’d ignorantly presumed. That he’d been a good man that’d deserved a much better life than he’d been given – a better death. Though this might have been just as true for so many other Araktéans, seeing the stranger lying there in a body that almost looked warm still, made it very different. It almost made it feel like a personal loss.
As Isaiah came back to at least some of his senses, he remembered there was no time – nor reason – for him to grieve the stranger. Sadly, that was something he’d have to leave for the poor, orphaned girl. He didn’t know how, or if, he’d be able to explain death to her. Out of all the stories he’d heard of it and the tales suggesting the odd occurrences that followed, he was yet to hear one that made sense. From his own perception, a man’s death meant he was gone, and an empty body had no use for protection – while his own, most certainly did. He noticed himself still compelled to get the knife he’d been promised. “He won’t miss it any more than Tzelem misses his boots,” he thought. Besides, since his daughter remained, he knew the laws said that whatever had once belonged to him, was now hers to keep or give away. With this in mind, he tried lifting up the madras (the man had left a body of heavy bones). He then tried slipping his hand underneath it carefully – unsuccessfully.
Glaring at the man, considering how he’d proceed in moving him, he noticed something underneath his hands. Looking closer, he saw there would be no need to move him at all, as a thin knife was resting right on top of his chest. Carefully, he lurked it out with the tips of his fingers. Though the silver wasn’t rusty, and the pattern in the wood was smooth and nicely cut, something told him it was a knife of a very long memory. It looked nothing like the ones used for slaughter. Nor for cutting leaves, or vegetables, and it was much more delicate than the large one his grandfather had given him. It was unlike any knife he’d ever held or laid eyes on. Slender, almost weightless, even a little beautiful.
“Thank you.” He whispered out into the air, and just as surely, he could have sworn he saw the dead man blink. Stumbling backwards, he assured himself his mind was playing tricks again – that it was too dark there for him to trust his eyes. Quickly, he rushed out and slammed the door shut.
“Amelia? Could you come here, please?” He looked around. The house was all silence. He wasn’t sure what to tell her, nor what would be the best thing to do with an orphan. Though he’d gladly take her to a neighbor, he worried the town was all out of living ones. Another option was to bring her to the next village, but he was in a hurry and the map hadn’t suggested there were any villages at all in the area.
“I am here.” Isaiah flinched, discovering the little girl standing next to him.
“You startled me.”
“My father is alright now.” He took a deep breath and then squatted down to meet her eyes.
“He isn’t, Amelia. I am so sorry to tell you this, but… he’s not alright. He will be, but right now he is sleeping very deeply, and he won’t wake up again.” He tried compensating for the message with a gentle voice, but it proved to be a hard thing to do while scared senseless.
“No.” Amelia shook her head, seemingly unconcerned. “He is alright now.” Isaiah realized she’d said it as a statement rather than a question, before. Not a hysterical one that one might expect from a child that had just lost their last parent, but with the certainty of an academic and the confidence of a guardian.
“Do you know about death?” He asked seriously. She nodded without blinking.
“It is that thing that moves you to somewhere new and shows you who you were.” He thought about this for a moment.
“That is a nice theory.” He said, scratching his chin.
“You could come with me in the morning, but I will have to leave you somewhere safe along the way… I’m on an important mission, you see.”
“I could tell that you were – you have light in your eyes.” She said and looking into hers he felt his heart beating louder. They were so old, those eyes – so strange and so familiar at the same time.
“I’ll come with you for as long as you need me.” Isaiah smiled. Her tears would come soon enough. When they did, he would do his best to comfort her.
“We should get some sleep.”
Waking up the next morning, the headache and at least parts of his disorientation had passed. He drank some water from his flask, and then walked towards the bedroom. Though he’d insisted she shouldn’t sleep in there, he hadn’t felt it was his place to refuse her one last night to say goodbye.
“Amelia, we need to leave now.” He said, knocking the door. When she didn’t answer the third time, he opened it and his chest tightened as he noticed she was not in her bed. Had she run off somewhere? Turning his head towards where the dead man had laid, he just barely managed to suppress a scream. The man he’d seen, so freshly departed the night before, wasn’t there either. That was not to say the bed was empty or that his daughter was laying there (either case might have been preferable). Instead, resting under the thick, gray covers, there were bones, and on the pillow the eyeless scalp of a fleshless skeleton. After almost falling backwards out the door, Isaiah grabbed his book and ran. He got on Indra’s back, and he left the town as fast as he could without looking back. Guilt came upon him as soon as he thought of the little girl. He wondered if she’d truly been real or if he’d been so tired he’d made her up inside that strange fever. Her words hadn’t been those of a child, but he would’ve never made up such an odd saying himself either (unless he’d unknowingly had grown himself an imagination). He had never prayed before, but for the rest of the day he prayed that was what it’d been. Some vivid dream made by an overly heated head and a tiresome heart that all of a sudden seemed to mind solitude.