14. Tarsa

The current is strong

This is an installment in a serialized novel. To start at the beginning, go here or navigate from the Table of Contents.

The sky was pink with dawn as they placed the last stones on the burial mounds, though the sun was still hidden behind the mountains. They had risen in the stillness of night to begin the silent work, but now the white robes moved in a light breeze. Only the three Veyta warriors wore dark colors. Hal’s mother cast a judgmental look in their direction. Why had they stayed? Hal had expected them to be off the morning after the raid, but they had remained another day, for the burial.

Hal placed his last stone on his father’s burial mound, and it settled heavily onto the pile. It seemed wrong, Hal thought, to leave him here, out in the open on the edge of the verdance, near the barren plains. He should be in his garden, Hal thought, under the shade of one of his beloved trees. Hal had said this to his mother, but she had rejected the idea immediately. He belonged with his family, and with his son. Hal looked down the strip. His father and Esath were laid near each other. Out along the transitional space at the edge of the green zone stood many other mounds, scattered with no evidence of organization. How many generations had lived out their days on this strip of land and been buried here, so close to where they were born? What had those lives amounted to?

Hal’s grandmother was singing now, the same song of grief that Hal had sung on the night of the raid. A few people looked at Hal, probably expecting him to join in, but he stayed silent. He could not bear it, hearing his grandmother’s lament. His stomach felt cold, heavy–there was no music within him today. He must not have been the only one who felt that way. Enedram mourning was usually a loud affair, full of wailing and singing and laughter, but too many tears had already been spent, leaving the mourners in a state of weary silence.

When the ceremony ended, the people moved back toward the houses. Broan had objected to holding a funeral feast– so much had been lost in the raid, and that after much of their stores had been used in the wedding celebrations. This was a time to conserve, to rebuild– and to prepare, in case of another attack. But Hal’s mother had insisted that her husband and son would be buried with the honor they deserved, and so what remained from Piria’s wedding feast had been repurposed for the occasion today.

Hal drifted along, hanging back–he wasn’t hungry. And all his life, he had turned to his family with his joy, anger, and tears. But today, he just wanted to be alone. He found himself plodding along the dry side of the irrigation levee that edged one of the fields. He had no destination in mind– what destinations were there, out here?

After some time he stopped and looked behind him. A rider was approaching at a canter along the hard ground outside the fields—Vishtarsa, on his tall gray horse. The man looked like he was from another world, seated on his warhorse in his sharp, dark Veyta garb, sun shining on his hair and on the hilt of his sword. He stopped in front of Hal.

“I was hoping to speak with you before we depart, Haleth son of Eryod.”

“People just call me Hal.”

The Veyta man smiled. “Will you walk with me?” Without waiting for Hal’s reply, he dismounted and walked forward in the direction Hal had been going, guiding his horse alongside him. Hal paused for a moment, then jogged to catch up.

They continued in silence for a moment, then Vishtarsa spoke. “Your people have lived in safety on this land for a long time.”

“Not always in safety,” said Hal, glancing at the strange green eyes.

Vishtarsa nodded. “Our people have a history of… misunderstandings. But it was not always that way– there was a time when Veyta and Enedram shared a common goal.”

“When Abashar was king,” said Hal, trying to remember what his grandmother had told him.

Vishtarsa looked at him sharply, but when he spoke it was with the same relaxed tone. “What do you know about Abashar?”

“Not much,” said Hal. “Just that he was a Veyta king who did something brave, and the Enedram seemed to think he was alright.”

“Yes…” said Vishtarsa, “In those days Veyta and Enedram worked together because they faced a common enemy. And today is no different. These… sprana threaten everyone on the plains, Veyta and Enedram alike.”

Hal looked skeptical. “My people are just farmers. Your people are warriors with… advantages.” He looked again at the man’s eyes. “The three of you seemed to deal with them pretty quickly the other night.”

“The three of us? I seem to remember one young farmer taking down about ten of them by himself. But,” he sighed, “not all Veyta are the warriors we used to be. We have grown too peaceful.”

Hal frowned. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Until there is a threat and we are unprepared to face it.” Vishtarsa spoke with sudden intensity, and for a moment, his young, handsome face looked dangerous. “The time has come,” he said, “for us to take up arms again and defend our land against evil creatures who seek to destroy us. And I hope that the Enedram will fight by our side.”

Hal frowned. “Would the Veyta really fight alongside Enedram? Like I said, we’re not warriors.”

“I fought alongside an Enedram warrior two nights ago,” said Vishtarsa.

Hal flushed and was silent for a moment. “There’s something that I don’t understand, Vishtarsa. Your father…”

“Sevishar.”

“Sevishar–he’s the lord of Yanat.”

“He is the Dujun, yes,”

“Yanat is the biggest city in… well the biggest one I’ve ever heard of, and you’re his oldest son. So why are you out here on the plains, dealing with the problems of villagers? Don’t you have more important things to do, like eating grapes or something?”

Vishtarsa laughed. “There are plenty of Veyta in my father’s palace who occupy themselves with fineries. But I have never been content to stay in one place for too long. I am a man of action, and right now there is a need for it here on these plains. And what about you, Haleth?”

“What about me?”

“Are you content to stay here tending crops?”

Hal didn’t reply.

“Haleth, I know a warrior when I see one. During the raid… you were extraordinary. You have a gift, a destiny.”

Hal continued in silence.

Vishtarsa stopped suddenly, placing a hand on Hal’s shoulder. “Come with me– join me and my men.”

“Join… a group of Veyta riders?”

“A group of men with a shared purpose–to protect the people who live on these plains.”

Hal shook his head. “I can’t leave right now, after what just happened. I have to help protect my family here.”

“Yes,” said Vishtarsa, “but I have been following these creatures all over the plains. They never strike the same place twice. Your family is safe for the moment. The best thing you could do to protect them is to help me hunt down the monsters that threaten everyone in this region.”

Hal looked at Vishtarsa’s earnest face. There was passion in his expression, and purpose–and Hal did not doubt that this man would accomplish whatever he set out to do. This was a man he could admire, could follow–could even love.

Suddenly Hal remembered his father’s words, in the garden before the raid. He had said that Hal might find another path–that he would know when the time was right to let flow the fullness that was within him. And Hal knew then that he would go with Vishtarsa, that he was being pulled out into something bigger and that he would not resist the chance to be a part of it.

“Well, there is one problem…” he said.

“What is that?” asked Vishtarsa.

“I don’t know how to ride a horse.”

…

Oweth was bouncing with excitement at the news until Hal told him that no, he couldn’t come along, and then he ran off, sobbing. Mother, for the first time in her life, seemed weak, too weak even to put up much of a fight at the prospect of losing another of her sons. Broan tried to forbid Hal from going, admonishing him for betraying his kind and abandoning his family in a time of need, and issuing all sorts of warnings about the Veyta and their strange, cruel ways. Broan seemed to be trying hard to fill his father’s shoes, but his attempts at acting as the head of the household seemed hollow, his authority tempered by his own insecurity and bluster. Broan’s precarious leadership, more than his words, made Hal question his choice. It didn’t help that there was continued tension between Broan and Selinuth, who had stayed on with some of his people to help with the rebuilding.

Piria turned red and stomped around, but when Hal started to question whether they really did need him to stay, with Father gone, she rolled her eyes. “I loved Father,” she said, “but who do you think was running this place all along?”

With his grandmother, he tried to offer an explanation, that he was doing this for his family, to protect them– that it was the right choice. She only sighed and patted him on the cheek and said, “Sometimes, Haleth, it doesn’t matter if it’s right or wrong–when the current is strong, it’s useless to fight it. All you can do is let go and see where it takes you.”

And so it was that, before he had fully processed what was happening, Hal found himself with his pack on, approaching the edge of the verdance where the three Veyta were waiting for him, already mounted.

The woman, Heyeh, gave him a mocking look. “Are you planning on harvesting the scrublands, farmer?”

Hal flushed, hand going to the sickle he had strapped to his belt. “I thought… I would need a weapon?”

Vishtarsa smiled. “When we reach our camp, we will find you a real weapon, not a farm tool.”

With some reluctance, Hal unfastened the sickle, looking back toward the house. A small figure was running out to them– Oweth.

When the boy reached them, panting, his eyes were defiant and a little too bright. “I came to tell you that I am not going to cry when you leave, Hal.”

Hal’s throat grew tight as he knelt before his brother. “I’m glad you came out here, Oweth. Remember that you said you needed a sword to hunt a dragon?” He held out the sickle. “Take this– if you see any dragons, you’ll be ready.”

The little boy nodded solemnly, taking the handle of the sickle in his small hands.

“I have something for you too, Hal.” And he held out a small fired clay figurine on a cord, roughly shaped in the form of a bear.

“Thank you,” Hal put it round his neck. Before he could say more, the boy had turned, his mission completed, and was running back toward the house, sickle flailing. “Oweth–don’t run while you’re holding the…” Hal’s let his voice trail off. He was leaving, and Oweth would have to get by on his own now. Not on his own, Hal told himself–his mother and siblings would take good care of the boy.

Hal turned back to the riders. “Is it far to your camp? I’m sure I can follow you on foot. Broan said they can’t spare a horse, and besides I don’t really know how to…”

“He could ride with Heyeh,” said the younger Veyta man, the one called Vishkiva, “she is light enough–her gelding can carry them both for a time.”

The young woman’s eyes flashed. In the daylight he could see that they were a pale yellowish green. Once Hal had seen a mountain cat in a cage, brought on a wagon by a merchant. The cat’s eyes had looked like that. “I will not ride double with the farmer,” she was saying, “and risk ruining Nani. He says he can walk, let him walk.”

“No,” said Vishtarsa thoughtfully, “He needs to learn. Kiva, give him your mount. Your mare will treat him more kindly than my Bruma.” The man’s tall gray stallion did look a bit wild, though it submitted well enough to Vishtarsa’s guiding.

The younger Veyta man cast a look at Hal under his dark brows, but he dismounted in silence and held the reins, nodding for Hal to mount.

Hal took a deep breath, looking at the tall mottled mare. He knew how to mount, though he had only done it once in his life before falling off. He still had a bump on the bone of his collarbone where the old break had healed. Before he had time to think more about it, he put a foot in the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle. The horse shuffled, snorting, unsure about the new rider, but settled down quickly as Vishkiva held the reins, speaking soothingly to the animal.

And then they were moving, out into the desiccated wilderness of the scrublands, away from the only life Hal had ever known.

“Vishtarsa,” asked Hal, “How far did you say it is to your camp?”

“Half a day’s trek, at this pace,” said the man. “We should make it by sundown. And you can use my familiar name,” he said.

“Your familiar name?”

“Tarsa,” he said, “my men call me Tarsa.”