***
Warning ***
Sensitive
situations
Violence;
Nudity;
Hard
R Rating
Please
do not read if you are easily disturbed.
(All
characters, places and events reside solely in my imagination.)
The
Song of Gaál
….......
Fourteen ….......
Four
days' walk from the traveler's hut, Cassava met the Suiken River. He
crossed the small wooden bridge and walked along the bank, leaving
the path. He had passed by the small clearing where he and Eszerbet
spent their last night and had quickly decided he wanted to follow
the river north once he reached it. He often clenched his fists as he
continued toward Kisertet's estate, trying to shut Eszerbet's
permeating cries from his mind.
Remembering
the husband and wife who had her in their charge eased his conscience
some. From the brief meeting with Ubrin and Riata, he felt that
Eszerbet would be well cared for. His mind wandered to thoughts of
Eszerbet in the hands of Andronios. That thought led to Kisertet and
his desire to end a two hundred years' grudge, with the same people
who took the life of Kisertet's own father.
A
father. Cassava chewed his lower lip, his thoughts down that path
blank. He had no father. Certainly, a man at some time knew his
mother, or he would not be here. And there; that word. Another word
that brought nothing to him. No face. No voice. No smell. No feeling.
Unwanted. A mother surely at least wants her child. Ursula's tear
stained face and wrenching sobs filled his mind. The night Mistress
took the baby from her, Ursula had cried and begged and pleaded for
the infant. Ursula wanted her child. And Kisertet. How could he not
know that he fathered the baby? Kisertet waited for its hair to
grow, to see the colour. Perhaps that was what his father did,
waited for the hair, and seeing it was wrong, never came for him.
And his mother, knowing that the hair was wrong, left him. Cassava
felt a bug crawling down his cheek and brushed it away, the backs of
his fingertips coming away slightly damp.
Ten
days into his journey back to Kisertet's estate, Cassava's eyes
caught sight of prints in the mud at the edge of the river. The
slow, twisting water path seemed to ebb, filling the shallow prints
before emptying, only to fill again. He looked closer at the print
that resembled a horse hoof. Perhaps a deer, for he saw deer at
times, drinking at the water's edge. It was difficult for him to
tell, it seemed large for a deer, but it was not a very new
impression and the water may have washed the edges out. He expected
that it would disappear by the night, with the river circling through
it as it did. On the chance that there was another traveler on the
road, Cassava moved a bit away from the river, taking caution and
staying to the brush and bracken that grew along the banks.
His
sleep that night was uneasy and not restful. The smallest sounds set
him on edge and alert. In the predawn, he gave up trying to sleep,
rose and quickly forced pemmican from Riata's food pack into his
stomach. He washed his face and hands in the cold river and made sure
the leather straps on his arms and torso were secure and his knives
at easy access. He replaced the knife at his right hip and the small
file at his ankle in his left boot.
Breezes
swept gently through the trees and Cassava walked upon the dappled
light that danced on the ground. Birds twitted and chirped around
him. The river murmured below him. If he could just dismiss the
uneasy feeling, he would find the walk enjoyable, but his every nerve
was teased to awareness. He tried to keep his thoughts focused on his
return to Kisertet's estate, being sure Mirriam was safe and
listening to Kisertet's music. Even seeing the stubborn horse Bence
would be nice, he thought.
Levente's
face flashed in his mind and he tensed, stumbled to a stop. Was he
gone? Would he have left already? He will need to be cautious when he
reached the estate. He would have to watch the grounds and see if
any other horses were in the stables for he doubted that Levente
would have made the journey on foot. Would he have men with him?
Waiting for evening before approaching the manse would be best, he
concluded. Cassava moved under a thick copse of trees and sat.
Evening arrived faster than he expected and his stomach grumbled; he
had forgotten to eat since morning, so caught up in his ruminations.
Leaning back against a tree, his belly settled with an apple, he
dozed. Dreams of Mirriam in the harsh, damp cellars of Castle Sotete
tore away at his rest. He gave up trying to sleep. Growling to
himself, he got up and resumed his walk, in the damp early morning.
The
song of the forest abruptly changed to a cacophony of crashes through
the underbrush. Cassava ducked below the thickest growth he could
find near him. The animal's run continued and passed him where he
lie. Moments after the animal ran by, heavier steps sounded and the
voices of men carried along the path. “This direction!” a man's
voice called out. Cassava stilled. “Overtake it, Tomas, go
south.”, the voice called again. “Aye!” came the response and
a rider moved away. Closer they came, but slower in the ride, the
brush was thick and overgrown, hindering their movement. “Damn
animal! Leave it!” Another man bellows, his loud, gravely voice
echoing in Cassava's head. “Night will come faster in this gods'
forsaken place. We go!”
Cassava's
blood went cold. He curled closely to himself on his knees and
elbows, sinking slightly into the loamy ground under the forest
growth. The horses moved closer to where he hid. He kept his eyes
low, peeking up under his brow to watch the man. Cassava tightly
gripped the knife that seemed to have miraculously appeared in his
hand, so subconscious was the action to the threat before him. “Water
the horses here, there is a path leading down. We leave for Sotete
tonight.” said the gravely voice that set Cassava's skin crawling
with chill. Anger and fright soured his stomach.
The
men dismounted and moved along with the horses, taking them to the
water's edge. Each step brought them near Cassava's small niche in
the brushwood. He mightily hoped the horses would follow the men and
step around, not try to push through, where he hid. Cassava ducked
his head to prevent any chance of his eyes reflecting light.
Three,
there were three men. They carried swords and bows. They carried
large daggers on their hips. The filtered sunlight glimmered on their
mail shirts. His thoughts whirled with strategies. He could follow
when they moved and cut their throats while they rested. But if they
did not rest, the horses could alert the men of his presence. He
could move silently, he was certain, but would the horses become
uneasy being trailed? The creatures were more aware of their
surroundings than the men who claimed to be their masters. All
within a moment, ideas and actions and outcomes were born and died.
It
seemed hours, but in truth, in minutes, the men started to move back
to the traveler's path. Cassava watched through the foliage until
they disappeared from his sight, his dark eyes storming, boring into
the back of the man who left him for dead a lifetime past. Silently
he crept, toe to heel, following the small party. The men spoke of
the deer that ran from them after being hit with their arrow. They
carelessly laughed that the deer could still run. Cassava snarled,
feeling as though his blood was on fire. The idea of an injured
animal so easily left to suffer infuriated him, and distracted him.
His foot set down on a dry limb that snapped loudly in the forest
hush, and Levente spun around, his cold blue eyes wide and fixed on
Cassava.
“Halt!”
Levente's voice boomed. He spun the horse and pointed to where
Cassava stayed still as a stone, half hidden in the trees. “The
boy! Get that boy!” Levente ordered, each word articulated
with crisp precision. Cassava ducked back into the bracken, tightened
himself into a crawl and forced himself through the underbrush away
from the path. Two men rushed down the path in his direction. He
watched their booted legs hurry by, neither noticing the slight
movement of the small branches as he delved deeper into the forest
growth.
“There
is no boy, Sir!”, one man shouts, quite near to Cassava.
Levente's
reply was angry and shaken, “I saw the boy! Find him!”
The
man near Cassava emitted a short, harsh sigh and moved away, his foot
falls loud to Cassava's heightened hearing. A short distance away,
the second man also informed Levente that there was no boy. Levente
growled more words and the two men searching stepped closer to
Cassava, disagreeing with Levente as gently as they could; a boy was
not here at all and would not be walking so far away from the village
on his own.
“Addled,
he is, going on about boys, haunts and shadows,” one of Levente's
men commented to the other. Cassava held his breath until they moved
back to Levente and the horses.
The
men convinced Levente, after a time, that the forest behind them was
not hiding a boy of any sort. Fools, Cassava thought, foolish men.
Their search was halfhearted. Had they taken Levente seriously, they
would have seen Cassava's flight for cover. His tracks were surely
there for anyone with a care to find and follow. He had to be better.
He had to move beyond sight, leave no traces. His racing pulse
gradually slowed and he shivered with the draining of the adrenaline
from his blood. The men seemed to have searched only to pacify
Levente. This gave him much to think about during the hours he stayed
hidden in the brush.
