A Tree And A Bucket

The children of the Kalkorae and the Hundred Tribes, known as mundanes or, later, Mar, lacked an inherent ability that the invaders and the natives found essential.

They lacked magic.

By mede and wint standards, and by the land's standards, this meant they lacked the ability to survive.

But survive they did. And during the Dark Age, when the Kalkorae were all but defeated and the Hundred Tribes vanished from the land, the Mar thrived in the coastal cities, far from the wars that engulfed their forebears. The half-breeds lived on the remains of the magic-wielders: living in their homes, cannibalizing their products, and breeding with their true-blood children.

Still, the Kalkorae looked down on their wards with disdain, for they lacked the ability to set fire to the trees with their minds, or move mountains by pushing at air, or create vast storms where drought held sway.

Into this, Esgil Erseld, whose star is Klar Výtes, was born and raised. He was as unbecoming a man as any there was, but the lord of wind and fire, Marrish, spoke to him. The flame of passion ignited the first hero. He began to preach the word of Marrish.

A time will come, he proclaimed, when the power of the Mar would move the very moons and sunder the swamps, when neither the medes nor the wints would be able to stand ahead of the great rolling thunder rising from the throats of their children.

To earn our birthright, he declared, to earn the gift of magic from Marrish, the Mar will live through many years of persecution and sacrifice. The gift is not something the gods want us to take lightly, but something we must earn through the trials of our every day living. We must give of ourselves in the eyes of Seruvus, freely, daily. We must better our race and culture in the mind of Heliotosis and Swind. We must stand strong before our enemies with Fraemauna, Niminth and Sendala in our hearts. We must share with our brothers and sisters in the bounty of Her and Cedar.

And when the lord of wind and fire has judged our sacrifices and commitment, our continuity and our culture, the stars themselves would not save our enemies.

Esgil's tongue sowed flames among his brethren like Cedar casting wild rice upon the land, and to this day, the Cult of Marrish performs its sacrifices in hopes of earning the favor of the lord of wind and fire.

*******

Tharv Haggart stopped at the low fence and scraped the mud off his boots with the guest thunga, eyeballing the sprawling house a dozen yards ahead with apprehension.

He did not want to be here. The middle-aged cooper adjusted his leather coveralls as he replaced the thunga, pretending to inspect his boots for more mud. This was Berta's idea, and Tharv didn't appreciate the way his wife bossed him around. But something was going on at the herbalist's home, and Sophi, the woman of the house, wouldn't talk to Berta's sister about it.

Gossip, Tharv sighed, reaching inside the fence and unlatching the gate. All women care about is gossip. He stepped into the garden.

Most people had gardens surrounding their homes, full of vegetables and trees to supplement the main staple of wild rice in the fields outside Litus Albus. The one around the herbalist's home, though, seemed to be full of strange plants Tharv had never seen before. They filled the air with a cacophony of scents that almost overwhelmed the bald cooper.

Why does Berta think men gossip like the women do? He thought, taking his time, trying to identify something in the garden. One over there, by the house, might have been wild onion. We don't care about the same things! Just because some blasted woman has been a little closed-mouthed about why a bunch of the, what was it Berta had called them? Leading men, that's it. Leading men of the town did after hours here, that doesn't mean anyone should get involved.

He stared around a bit distractedly, and his eyes fell on a tree anyone would recognize. The kalysut was something that appeared in almost everyone's garden, though very few of them had buckets attached to them. He stepped over a spiky green shrub to peer into the bucket.

"May I help you?"

Tharv jumped in surprise, and looked over his shoulder at the woman in the door somewhat guiltily.

By all the gods, Berta, you will be the death of me! Not for the first time, Tharv wished he had said no to her when she had proposed marriage.

"Tharv Haggart, are you trying to sneak a bit of father's special healing potion?" the woman said with mock solemnity.

Sophi was a pretty young woman, with wavy yellow hair cut close to her shoulders and sun-darkened skin illuminating emerald eyes. Her hands and wrists were small but always moving, picking at something on her clothes or gesturing as she spoke. She was just a few years younger than Berta's sister/

"No, Sophi," Tharv stuttered, making his way back to the path. "I just haven't seen a setup like that before." He gestured back at the tree. "What's it for?"

"I told you. It is for a magic healing potion father is working on." She waved her hands around to dismiss it. "Is there something you need, Tharv? You look perfectly healthy. Of course, father says many illnesses don't show themselves properly."

His stutter came back. "Sophi, I didn't ..."

"Well, come in anyway. You are welcome to our soup. It'll make you feel better, whatever is wrong with you." She disappeared back into the house.

Tharv wasn't a fearful man. He had faced pirate attacks, and killed more than a few himself. He had joined the raid to drive off the damnen the mapmaker from Domus Palus had said was nearby three years ago. They hadn't seen the thing, but Tharv had been there. And he had stood up to his wife once, a few months ago, about where he could put his boots.

But as he stood and stared up at the smoke pouring from the chimney of this sprawling, wooden house, no bigger than his own, surrounded by strange plants and curious smells, he couldn't help but want to turn around and run all the way home, no matter what Berta had promised to cook for him if he didn't find out what was going on. He shuddered.

"Tharv Haggart!" Sophi's yell startled him, and he took a few hesistant steps across the threshold and into the herbalist's house.

Inside, the room was warm and tightly packed, full of even more plants. The musty smell was powerful enough to make Tharv cover his nose. Sophi stood by a work table, busily clearing off a space. Water in a large pot boiled ferociously in the fireplace, and a smaller kettle of a rack near the stove threatened to whistle madly at any moment.

"Is that ... are those mushrooms?" he asked after staring down at a white-capped patch of dark earth in a corner by the floor.

"Toadstools," she corrected him, coming over and closing the drawer they were in. "They prefer the dark and the damp." Pressing her hands against his chest, upper arms, shoulders and back, she managed to herd him to a stool by the table and guide him into a sitting position.

"Father will be here in a moment," she said. "I'm sure he is more interesting company than I am. Men like to talk to men, it would seem. That farmer never seems to leave here, in any case. Let me make you some tea."

The words shot out of her mouth one after the other, and she had placed a mug with tea leaves in it in front of him before she had finished the last sentence. She stared at him awkwardly, her hands kneading her dress, while they waited for the kettle to scream.

"You mean Schafft?" he said, stiffly, not accustomed to his role of spy. "Isn't he about your age?"

She threw her hands into the air. "Men! All of you are the same!" The kettle whistled shrilly. Between her outburst and the scream, Tharv jumped, knocking the clay mug off the table and spilling leaves over the floor.

The girl bent, disgustedly, to pick up after him, and seemed surprised when he dropped to his knees to help.

"I'm sorry," he said, deciding he had had enough of the game his wife was playing. "I don't know your father well, and I wanted to ask him some questions. I'm very nervous." He couldn't quite bring himself to say, my wife wants me to stick my nose in his business.

"Questions about what?" she asked, grabbing the mug and straightening. She filled it with water, then sifted the leaves into it, muttering to herself like a woman four times her age.

"About, about," he stuttered, took a deep breath and regained his composure, "about his midnight meetings."

"Oh, you mean the Perkonen," she said briskly, placing the steaming mug in front of him. "Just a bunch of church people." She paused briefly, ever so briefly, and then began bustling again. "Maybe they're not the Perkonen," she corrected herself. "Maybe I don't know what they call themselves."

"Um," Tharv said, placing the boiling tea to his lips and scalding himself.

"Wait for it to cool!"

"Why isn't your father here yet?" He paused, thinking he should take a stand. "I'm not going to drink this until he gets here." He put the mug down.

She stared at him, her hands mussing with something on the counter, then lifted her head and screamed, "Father! Get in here right now!" Her voice was so shrill dust fell from the corners. Tharv was certain he saw some of the plants shake.

An answering bellow, muffled by plants and walls, sounded more like the call of a wild beast than a father responding to his daughter. Tharv downed the still-too-hot tea without thinking about it, then coughed as the taste of it caught up to him.

"Oh," Sophi said with genuine sincerity, "I forgot to put in the peppermint. Father always says that tea tastes like the inside of a mapmaker's boot and needs a little kick." She frowned, clearly displeased with herself.

"It's ..." Tharv couldn't lie to make her feel better. If he had ever licked the inside of a mapmaker's boot, he was certain this would still have been worse. He brightened. "It's better than my wife's cooking."

Sophi scowled at him. "You just do not know anything, do you Tharv Haggart?"

He cringed again, but was saved by voices in the hall.

"It will be the greatest advance in modern agriculture, Weard!" an enthusiastic male voice said, growing louder with each word. "It will revolutionalize how we farm. Why, I image we will be able to grow a completely different staple crop than the one we have now!"

"But rice needs water, Schafft. Your dams and this screw idea would drain the water."

The man who came through the door first wore a green cloak covered nearly to the waist in mud. Even as Tharv watched, some of it glopped off and landed on the floor. Sophi gave a small sound of disgust.

As Tharv had noted, Schafft Enaiver was a decade younger than him, which put him at Sophi's age, and the man was single. His enthusiastic study of the most mundane things — from water spiders to the interstices of joiners in the neighbor's fence — did not attract many of the women in the town, although his good looks usually would have. Word-of-mouth had gotten around, and even the crowds of people his age mostly ignored him.

"A whole new crop, Weard! I got these seeds from Kafthey. They call it maize, and it needs far less water than we have. Oh, hello, Tharv, Sophi. Good to see you again."

Weard Darflaem, Sophi's father, stepped into the room after Schafft, surreptitiously wielding the house thunga to expertly remove the mud falling off the young man's clothes.

"You make things too difficult," Weard said reasonably, nodding courteously to Tharv and smiling briefly at his daughter, whose head hung in sullen silence. "Schafft, we have the water. Why remove it to grow something that we have no need for?"

Weard was as much older than Tharv as Schafft was younger. The herbalist was a patient, studious man with short, graying hair and thick, manicured beard. His dark brown cloak bulged in odd places, full of the instruments he used to study the insects, plants and animals for his herbalist's practice. Even at home, he wore it. Tharv counted at least four pairs of gloves of various thickness on the man's belt.

"We can trade it to other towns." Schafft would have launched into a discussion on the local economics if Sophi hadn't cleared her throat, making her father nod and interrupting the young agriculturalist.

"Let us pick up this discussion later, my good friend. Will you return tonight for some soup?" Weard asked, ushering the unprotesting young man out the door. Tharv couldn't help but notice Schafft poke his head in the bucket on the kalysut and stick his finger in to taste something in it before he left.

"Well, well, Tharv Haggart! What brings our cooper by today? Did Sophi make an order I had not heard about?" He winked slyly at his daughter, who shook her head.

Tharv took the proffered hand with his own sweaty one. The tea clung to the back of his throat like pine sap on clothing. What was he supposed to say, my wife wants to know what you are doing in the wee hours of the morning? What strange rites you perform?

Sophi, strangely, saved him. "He's asking about the Perkonen, father. He probably wants to join your secret little cult."

Tharv's eyes bulged. Secret cult? Was Berta right? But Weard was laughing, and his words echoed the cooper's thoughts.

"Secret cult? Are you still annoyed we don't let you join us, Sophi? Why, once the breakthrough is made, you are welcome to learn as much as you like." The herbalist eyed the cooper. "Why do you ask, Tharv? You aren't a very religious man. I have not seen you at services for several days."

Tharv hesitated. Here it was. Lie outright, or tell the truth. Damn his wife, damn that woman and her curiousity! Women's curiousity! He realized he was shaking.

"What's wrong, Tharv?" Weard laughed easily. He glanced at Sophi, who had busied herself near the fire. "You know, maybe you'll be more comfortable if it's just the two of us. Follow me."

"No, don't leave," Sophi said. "I have to go take care of something in the garden in any case. You men talk about your male things, and keep us women working hearth and home in the meantime." Her kiss on her father's cheek softened the words, but the flash in the emerald eyes said she would talk to him about it later.

"You have a daughter, Tharv. Is she anything like this?" Weard said when she had left. He poured himself a cup of tea.

"No," Tharv said, honestly. "She takes after her mother."

"Ah. Berta. A remarkable woman. Interested in everything, is she not?" Weard laughed, a jolly sound that grated on Tharv's ears. "Her sister is worse. Did she tell you she keeps trying to find out what our Perkonen group does by bugging my daughter?"

Tharv nodded. "As a matter of fact," he said, as lightly as he could manage, "that's the reason I'm here, Weard." He cleared his throat. "My wife just won't leave me alone about my not, um, volunteering for community activities, like you do. She had heard about your ... Perkonen?" Weard nodded thoughtfully. Tharv went on, "And guessed, since so many prominent members were in it, that it was something I should kind of get involved with." He cleared his throat. "She's a fierce woman when she sets her mind to it, Weard. Um. If you don't need any help, I'll find something else to do."

Weard kept nodding thoughtfully, sipping at his tea. One hand held the mug close to his lips while the other crossed his chest, buried in the pit of his arm. He didn't say anything for long minutes while Tharv sweated. Finally, the herbalist seemed to snap out of his reverie.

"Well, it is no great secret, I guess," he said. "Lauf and Rin may disagree, but sooner or later, everyone will know." He smiled at Tharv, who suddenly felt he could relax. "Why don't you come to our meeting tonight, Tharv? Bring your best thoughts, because we will need them."

"What are we going to do?" the cooper asked.

"Why, get Marrish to hand over the gift of magic, of course."

Copyright 2005-2007 Eric Zawadzki and Matthew Schick. All Rights Reserved.
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