When the Wind Calls, Page 2

  Kijah was a little disappointed. She had hoped for some magical sprawling city, with spires and towers. In truth, she didn’t know what to expect, but definitely not the blank woods and forest Zria pointed towards. Maybe it was just out of sight, hidden by the hills, she decided, and she settled back down on the blanket.

  Kijah lay on her side, propped up on an elbow. She watched Zria as he watched she sky. When she looked at him, she saw parts of herself. He had the same golden tawny skin and amber eyes that were a Tajynal trademark. And Zria carried about him that unique essence that the Faenyr possessed. Zria felt like snowflakes in moonlight. A Strange essence, in contrast to his sun-golden colouring. But that was how it was. An essence was particular to an individual, and nothing to do with whether they were mountain dwelling Shendahal, or plains-dwelling Tajynal.

  Tajynal were plains and prairies, glowing golden fair. That was how she knew her father had been Tajynal, without ever having to ask. The first time she had seen a full blooded Tajynal Faenyr, she had gasped. Kijah didn’t look like either of her parents; she had looked like a twin of the golden lightness before her. She looked more like Zria, than her own family. She reveled in that.

  And he glowed! When she learned how to tune into the colours, it took her breath away. Oh how the swirling colours around his body glowed. Rich deep blue, like the evening sky before it turned purple, with flecks of starlight mixed in. How could anyone not love this? It overwhelmed her senses, carrying the promise of mysteries to be explored.

  Zria was surprised when he had discovered that she was Faen-myr, half-blooded. Zria didn’t mind at all that she was Faen-myr, mixed-race, mixed-blood. In fact, he was fascinated by her uniqueness. He asked her questions: what she liked to do, how she spent her time, and little things. He was a good listener, and never impatient.

  “You’re very bright,” he had said. “Most Chanmyr aren’t.”

  “Did you think I was stupid? Dull?” she asked, confused and insulted.

  “Bright here,” Zria said, waving his hand gently around her body.

  “I’m bright?” she asked, confused.

  “Yes, you are,” he smiled at her, a smile that went straight to her heart, a secret smile, shared between friends. “A very bright light green, you are. Like beech leaves that flutter in the spring breeze.” Hearing herself described that way, made her shiver. It made her think about her other side, her Faenyr side. The side of her that she knew nothing about.

  She worried then that he might like her less because she didn’t know anything about her own father. What if being pure-blooded mattered to Zria, and she lost her wonderful new friend? But Zria gave it no thought, so perhaps it was only the Chanmyr who made an issue of race-- deciding pure blood, mixed blood, half-breed etc. When he referred to race, it was never an insult-- not the way it was an insult to be traveling Beddo. And being a mixed child, now a young woman almost, golden and exotic, had brought a sudden attention from boys, who found her pretty and graceful. She hoped that Zria saw her that way also.

 

  Chapter 2

  Kijah and Zria spent their time wandering through the woods. Kijah had no idea how many different kinds of woods there were, how many different kinds of trees. Zria seemed to know them all, as if each one had a name. Zria told her stories about the Faenyr myths and legends, and about ancient times, and the city of the angels. Her favourite one was about Yttuva, and how his children had betrayed him. And that he vanished, never to be seen again. Kijah wondered what happened to a god? Where a god might go?

  “Do you mean the angels and the gods?” she asked. “You mean Yttuva was a god?”

  "Tarishve," he corrected her. “For that is how they call themselves,” he explained when she made her huffy pouting face.

  “I thought they were angels, or gods or something,” she said. “That’s what me Da said. That we come, long ago, from the land of the gods.”

  Zria frowned slightly, considering. “Perhaps that is so. If that is so, then it is a story that we have not heard.” And, he added, “Perhaps then, your angels, and the Tarisvhe are not the same thing? One day, perhaps we will share your story?”

  Now it was Kijah’s turn to frown. She never fully believed the stories were real. They were just stories, for bedtime, or cold winter nights. But Zria spoke of Tarishve as though they really existed.

  “Have you ever met one? A Tarishve?” she asked, as he pointed out a patch of new-sprouted wild garlic. The fresh spring greens held more interest for him now, as the pungent scent filled the air around them. She knew that she wouldn’t get an answer to her question.

  “These are very good to eat! We can make them a tasty part of our picnic lunch,” he said, picking several handfuls. A pungent scent of garlic filled the air, mixed with a feeling of green-ness. His bag full of foraged goodies, the two headed up to the top of the hill. He taught her some songs and they sang together, the entire way up the ridge. Her favourite was the song about The Fall of Yttuva.

  His children many,

  With wayward hearts and deaf ears,

  Willful builders, breakers of Nature,

  Saddened and bereft, he lost his manna,

  And like the trees, Yttuva withered,

  Fading with the seasons.

  The land became fallow, and the children starved,

  and cried for their father to save them.

  "It is better in Faenyr," Zria explained, "there is a different flow to the words."

  "What happened?" Kijah asked, expectant. "Where is the ending?"

  Zria shrugged. "That is the ending. Some say his children still wait for his return."

  "But what is the point of the story? There is no ending?" She asked, frustrated. All her stories had clear endings, usually happy ones. And yet she was still strangely fascinated by this myth-story and song.

  ~

  At the top, the sun was shining; it felt like full summer brightness even though it was still early spring. A cool breeze kept swept across the open ridge top. As they stepped out into the clearing, they could see a few brightly coloured flyers in the air. They recognized Kado’s and Vander’s, their bright striped patterns, even from a distance.

  A handful of fliers were tinkering with equipment, tightening joints and testing the wings for correct suppleness. They recognized Gherant, another local fellow, and wandered over to him. He was one of the more approachable, and less secretive of all the fliers.

  A bright smile greeted them, as Gherant looked up from the canvas that sprawled out all around him.

  “So I was right!” he called out. “Flint! Three coppers.”

  Another young man looked up from the far side of the flier. “How do you do it?” Flint gasped in mock annoyance, as he waved to the kids with one hand, and dug into his pocket with the other. “Ten minutes ago, he said you’d be here. Said he heard the singing coming up the hill. ‘Noway,’ I says. And I was fool enough to wager on it.” It was all good natured, even as he grumbled to himself, “sometimes I’d swear he smells the magic or something.”

  “That’s ok,” Gherant laughed. You can buy me an ale when we go back down, tonight.

  Flint laughed. “He always takes his winnings in beer,” he explained to Kijah and Zria. “Generous too, with other peoples pennies!” he called out, in a slightly over-loud voice, to make sure Gherant heard. “I remember one time, he lightened Vanders purse by many silver—over a flight challenge, that was. What does he do? We get back down to the city, and first tavern. First tavern, yes, that’s our usual stop, of course, the Brass Monkey. Anyway, we head in. barely get our things off and he shouts out, ‘dinner and drinks on me. For the whole house!’ Most of ‘em know us by now, so’s they figure Gherant had a good win. Guy walks up to our table after, looks around and shakes Gherant’s hand, then looks to the rest of us, and asks, like, ‘which one of us should he thank for the lovely dinner’” Flint was rolling with laughter, as he recounted the good natured ri
valry. “We all burst out laughing, Vander wasn’t sure if he should be insulted or gracious. The look on his face. Priceless.”

  Kijah and Zria both enjoyed spending time helping them. Flint and Gherant were both full of funny stories like the one about Vander losing his bet. Kijah liked that they talked to her like an adult, rather than like a child. The two of them lent extra hands, as Gherant and Flint worked on Gherant’s latest flier. Then they shared lunch together. Zria made a fire, more quickly than Kijah would have thought possible. Kijah suspected that Zria used magic, but she never saw anything to prove it. She decided she needed to watch more carefully next time. Soon the smell of sausages and wild garlic filled the air.

  “What’s it like? Flying?“ Kijah asked, as they ate.

  Gherant thought for a moment before answering. “It’s like floating on water, only you’re floating on air. A bit more like a river, though. Lya-chiqui: the invisible river, a Faenyr expression,” he added. “When you get it right, you can feel yourself flowing with a current you can’t really see. And the whole of Chanmyr stretches out below. All the world, and all the little things, become so very unimportant, so far away.”

  “And it’s a bugger all workout,” Flint added, without missing a beat.

  Gherant laughed. “You just say that because you aren’t in shape.”

  “Ha! I’ve seen you limping your way in, and sore in the shoulders. More ‘n once, too!”

  “Caught. Yes, but it is the sweetest kind of discomfort, after a good days flying. Excepting the times when you crash your landing,” Gherant laughed.

  Kijah was momentarily startled, at the thought of actual danger. “Is it hard? To learn, I mean?” she asked, all the while stealing glances over at Zria, ever quiet, the listener, taking it all in-- deep and mysterious to her.

  Gherant looked thoughtful for a moment. “I’m probably not the best one to ask about that. I taught myself, very young. The first time I saw a flier, way up there in the sky,” nodding upwards as he spoke, “like some magical bird, I was hooked. It was my one less trouble-causing obsession. And I also tagged along a lot,” he said, reaching for another sausage, “asking questions and helping out, any of the senior fliers who would stand my pestering.” He smiled fondly, remembering his early days- when he had more nerve and less skill. “I actually owe Vander a huge debt. He taught me a lot, back in my early days.”

  Flint laughed outright. “Good way to repay him, taking his money, winning bets with the Nibbin’s own luck.”

  “The Nibbin?” Kijah asked. “What does the little moon have to do with it? Is there some connection between time and luck?” she knew, as did everyone, that the Nibbin was the primary marker of time- as it crossed the sky four times each day: twice during the daylight, twice at night.

  “Nibbin is considered a trickster, to the Faenyr.”

  “Oooh,” Kijah said, understanding the joke now. “But why?”

  “Because he runs the opposite direction of the other moons. The other two, follow the same path as the sun. The Nibbin, is contrary to that.”

  “Oh,” Kijah said, looking up at the sky now, wondering.

  “But as for flying? No, I don’t suppose it’s very hard to learn. But there is a lot to learn. The sky, the Wind, it’s just like boating-- it looks easy when you get it right. But there’s a lot to understand, if you want to do it, and walk away in one piece,” he smiled.

  “I’m not sure I would be able to fling myself off the launcher,” she said, bringing her attention down from the sky, back to the conversation.

  “Oh, well, as a beginner, you’d probably want to start down in the lower field. Just a small slope, on the backside of the ridge, coming up the lane. It’s enough to let you get airborne, and sail across to the other side.”

  Kijah’s eyes lit up, and she sat straight up, spilling the last of her lunch in her excitement.

  “You mean there is a place to learn and practice that isn’t so high up?” It was clear to all four of them that she would find a way. This girl was going to fly, the determination in her voice, and the faint glow around her, a faint flickering in the green that seeped out, like sunlight hitting the beech leaves, stirring a restless spirit into the need for action.

  “Zria, would you fly?” she asked, turning to look at him.

  He considered, pausing. “It would be interesting, to see the land from above, to watch the flows,” he nodded. “Perhaps. Perhaps this would be a good thing to try,” he looked at the sky as he spoke, possibly imagining what it might be like to be up there, as Gherant had described. “Perhaps it would be good, to sing with the Wind,” he smiled, considering that.

  By the end of the afternoon, all of them were tired, and ready to head down the hill. Gherant had taken several test flights, bringing the flier back to the ridge field, each time. Kijah and Zria helped all afternoon, fetch and carry and hold.

  As they packed up their things, Gherant looked up, “If you like," he started, out of the blue, “I’ve got an old flier, down in my workshop. Next time, next week, I will bring that out, to the practice field, down below.”

  Kijah shrieked with excitement, bounced around and hugged Gherant. Then she hugged Flint also, and then hugged Zria, who was standing next to her. It seemed awkward not to hug all three of them. Her heart was racing and her feet barely touched the ground.

 

  Chapter 3

  The week mostly flew by. Kijah showed Zria around the city, following the canals around the outskirts, watching the canal boats, and the colourful Beddo floating by on their way up and down river. They hiked out into the bamboo groves, and Zria showed her how to make a bamboo flute- which he played for her, teaching her a few easy Faenyr tunes. When they were done, he gifted it to her, and she blushed, accepting it graciously, and hugging him.

  One afternoon, tired and sweaty, they stopped in a shady area on a bridge.

  “What will you do? Or Be?” she asked him. The two of them sat on the edge of the bridge, looking down at the slowly flowing river beneath them. Baby ducks meandered around Mama, down below.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, a bit confused.

  “What kind of job? How will you earn a living?”

  “Oh,” he laughed. “A Chanmyr question,” the tone in his voice, showed that he thought it was a quaint inquiry, a child’s question.

  “Why is it funny?” she asked, pouting, wondering if she had asked a foolish question.

  “It is different. You, the Chanmyr, you do things, to have money, coins,” he said the words as though they were foreign to him. “And you take those coins, and purchase things.” He paused, tossing some bread down to the ducks below. “Do you see the ducks? Does one ask a duck, what it does for a living?” he asked. “The duck doesn’t do things for a living. The duck, lives. Do you understand?” He looked at her, deeply, searching for something, some hint of recognition.

  Her heart was pounding, but she looked back at him, not comprehending. “What if you want a house?” she asked, “or something big?”

  “Building a house, a place to stay, is not a difficult thing to do,” he assured her, trying to explain.

  “But how would you build a big house all by yourself?”

  The two seemed at an impasse of comprehension and confusion.

  “Why would one build a big house? Why would one want a big house?” he asked, culturally confused. He genuinely wished for an answer to that question. “Honestly, can you explain this? This thing, has never made sense, bigness and grandness.”

  “Oh, well, that’s easy. The richer you are, I mean, the more coins and wealth you have, the bigger the house or boat you can afford to buy, the nice horse or wagon or clothes. So when someone sees a big house, or fine horse, they think, they know, the person who has them must be important. Powerful.”

  Zria blinked several times, processing this information. He was realizing how sheltered he had been, from understanding the people that shared this land. Ev
en between Treyu and Treyene, which shared a closeness, it was clear that there were gaps in understanding.

  “But there is no Power in a big house. You have shown me many of these big houses. And yet nothing of Power lies within them.”

  Kijah didn’t know how to explain it. She chewed on her lip, trying to find some way for it to make sense to her new friend. And, she had never considered the contradiction. Part of her knew what he was telling her. She could see colours-- not well, but enough to know that vitality had vibrancy. But she had been raised to think like Chanmyr; and that told her that wealth was power.

  “Okay, it’s like the ducks. When you throw bread into the water, they will all fight over the food. And the biggest strongest duck-- that one will get the most food. Other ducks move out of its way. I guess that’s kind of like Power. But with people, instead of fighting and squabbling, they can tell who has more power, who is higher in the herd, by their clothes, or horse, or their house.”

  “So having things, these possessions, keeps people from fighting then?” he asked, as though he finally understood it.

  “Well, not exactly,” she laughed lightly, feeling awkward and frustrated. “But kind of. Sometimes it does work that way. Other times, people fight over the things.”

  They went back and forth for a while. Each trying to understand, beyond just the words, into the other person’s world. Zria tried to explain what it was like in a community that didn’t rely on money, but rather on each other, and themselves.

  “Oh, you mean like bartering,” Kijah said, as though she finally understood at least a part of it.

  “Bartering?”

  “Yes, like, say I need new shoes for my horse, or a new bridle, or something. Anything. Ok?” she waited, until she saw him nod. “But I don’t have any money. Sometimes I can go to someone I know, and offer to do something for them. Maybe I just butchered my cow, and share a certain amount of the meat that they think is fair. We exchange goods or I could offer to work, cleaning up, or fixing something.”

  “A trade,” he said, a slight question in his voice.

  “Yes. A trade,” she agreed, deciding that might be the closest she was going to come to explaining, and relieved to be done with the tricky conversation. She knew she had failed miserably at explaining how the world worked.