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  I reached Baskrod’s side, feeling a mixture of hope and dread. An arrow was buried in his right shoulder. I lifted him slightly, placed my hand on his chest and felt for a heartbeat. Nothing. I shifted my hand and concentrated. Still nothing. Beginning to panic, I moved my hand to his neck and concentrated once again. Feeling a faint bump rhythmically push to my fingertip, I sighed in relief. Baskrod was alive.

  In the distance, the mudbeasts whooped and screamed, as their torchlight flickered. A profound sense of loss swept over me. Everyone I had ever known in my whole life, except Baskrod, was being slaughtered. Tightness filled my chest and stomach. I gritted my teeth. I have to find a way to save him. I grasped the arrow shaft, twisted, and yanked, which caused a fountain of his blood to spurt into my face. Surprisingly, the arrowhead came out still attached to the shaft and wrapped in the cloth of his torn bloody tunic. Grabbing a nearby blanket from the boat deck, I used it to wipe my face and then to put pressure on the wound while I glanced around for something, anything else that might be useful. The current continued to carry us downriver.

  “Wow, Baskrod was well prepared,” I said when I saw the clay beer pots among baskets of dried fish and numerous other items that had been hidden beneath the blanket, along with Baskrod’s usual circular nets, fishing trident and outer robe.

  Although I was tempted to wash away my terror by drinking the beer, instead I poured the liquid onto his wound, hoping that this beer contained dried fish bladder. Applying pressure, I untied the wide band from around his tunic, pulled it loose, then tied it tightly around his shoulder and lay him down gently. He did not move.

  After returning to the oars to steady the course of our boat, I looked back at my village one last time before we rounded a bend in the river. I could barely make out the movement of swarms of the mud beasts now letting out triumphant calls. Filled with anger and despair, I swore in my heart that I would avenge my family’s death. I would never forget the face of the man who had butchered my mother. Though it might take years, someday, I would find him.

  The boat meandered on along the Lanaduk River, as we sailed under the starlit sky, which had always been one of my favorite things in the world to do, and yet now everything was wrong. I knew the path of the river, where it was joined by the canals on either side, where the reeds grew the thickest, where it narrowed or widened, and each turn along the way. Yet, they no longer seemed familiar. The world was now a lonely, evil place.

  I thought back to the life I had known in Arvuk. Like a waterwheel turning through a river, life had been a cycle of crops, harvests and festivals. Seasons and lives rose and fell with the wheel. Death had been a natural but painful part of that cycle. The death of the very young and the very old was something we all learned to accept. I had been the youngest living child in my family because the three that came after me had all died. Now, as the boat floated along, images from my childhood began to fill my mind.

  I was a small boy again, watching my mother’s strong but gentle hands as she repeatedly soaked and wrung out strips of cloth which she laid on her babe’s forehead. I could still see the quiet strain in her wrinkled brow, and the helplessness in her baby’s hollowed begging eyes. I could hear her dipping the cloths followed by the water dripping into the bowl, over and over as she tended to him through the night, until the life passed from his tiny body.

  The wheel in my mind turned and I was a few years older, but still a young boy. I saw my mother’s full skirts and her sturdy hands as she kneaded the bread. I heard the even thuds as she turned and pressed the life-giving dough.

  Another turn, the scene shifted and her laughing face appeared. I felt my hand in hers, as she led me through the harvest dance, weaving in and out of the other festive dancers. How my mother had loved to dance! Trying to keep up with her steps as she twisted and turned, I watched her lift and place her webbed feet, as I placed mine after hers in time to the music. The picture froze. Her feet.

  The image of her bloody feet dangling from a rope broke through my childhood memories. It filled my mind, followed by the man’s hardened face that blotted out all that came before it. If he was a man. For, if he was a man and not a beast, how could he treat the life of a woman like it was a heap of dung to be tossed aside? Or was he a minion of the Berserker? Had the Berserker given him the duty usually reserved for the waters from above?

  “Why?” I cried out in despair.

  No answer came. I heard only the rushing water, as we drifted downstream. Returning my thoughts to here and now, I took Baskrod’s head onto my lap and washed his face with water from the river. His head felt warm, too warm on my fingers. “Baskrod? Please open your eyes. I’m sorry we didn’t believe you. We should have listened. I’m sorry. Please, talk to me,” I begged.

  He still lay there without reaction, yet I could feel his steady breathing. I had to figure out how to help him. Why wasn’t I hurt instead of him? He could heal me.

  As I held his head on my lap, I thought about Baskrod’s sacrifice. He had ardently urged the whole village to flee, yet he had not fled himself. I realized now that he had risked his own life to wait for me. I had found his predictions unbelievable, but I had told him I might leave with him for the city after the barley harvest. Had he known that would be too late? The barley had not been harvested, but Baskrod had already packed the boat with food, drink, and supplies for a long journey. How much had he known? Maybe it was the new star that warned him. I looked up at the sky and gazed at the star which seemed to urge me to action.

  Although I needed to put as much space as possible between us and those rampaging hoards, I also needed to find help for Baskrod quickly or he might die. On rare occasions, Baskrod had brought me downstream this far to exchange herbs with an herbalist in a nearby village. He had told me that if I ever needed help, that is where I should go. But, I had always waited in the boat in the canal, and I wasn’t even sure I could find the right canal. If only I had paid more attention. As we sailed, I surveyed the bank of the river for a large willow tree. Finally, I believed I had found this landmark. I took down the reed sail, veered the boat into the canal, and slowly scanned the shore.

  The village was sleeping under a blanket of heat, although a breeze now rippled along the canal. To provide Baskrod with some safety, I directed the boat to an area near some thick reeds, where I threw the stone filled bag overboard. I didn’t want to leave Baskrod alone. But, I didn’t have much of a choice. I dove into the water, kicked my webbed feet several times and quickly reached the shore. Not sure of which house belonged to the herbalist, I hurried to the nearest house and called to the people sleeping on the roof.

  “Help!” I yelled like a lost lamb bleating for its mother. “Help!”

  Several people sat up, while a bearded man stood and walked over to the edge of the roof and looked down at me. I was holding up my open palms to show that my hands were empty, but I’m not sure how much he could see in the moonlight.

  The bearded man called down to me, “Who are you?”

  “I am Amanki, son of Alallu of Arvuk,” I said, trying to sound calm, but I knew I probably sounded pretty desperate, and suddenly I could not hold in my words. They tumbled out in a flood, like a dam bursting: “My friend has been shot with an arrow and he is dying! Please help us, sir, please!”

  The man looked down toward me and said, “How many are with you?”

  “Just my friend and me.”

  “How did your friend get shot with an arrow in the middle of the night?” he asked, obviously suspicious.

  “We were escaping the mud beasts in his boat,” I blurted, and then tried to explain: “They attacked Arvuk!”

  “Who attacked Arvuk?”

  Nothing like this ever happened in the peaceful villages along the Lanaduk. I remembered how all the villagers, even I, had treated Baskrod when he had tried to warn us, and I realized that my words were wasting precious time.

  The man interrupted my thoughts: “Mud beasts, eh? Did Jazmir put you up to
this, boy?”

  If it were not still dark, the man would have known this was no prank just by looking at me. It was the middle of the night, my tunic was stained with blood from Baskrod’s injuries, my body was dripping wet from the swim, my cheek felt swollen where Baskrod had struck me, and my eyes were wide with terror. Like Baskrod before me, I probably looked like a mad man.

  I took a deep breath and forced myself to speak slowly and calmly. I focused on helping Baskrod. “This is no prank. I am exhausted and afraid. My friend, Baskrod, is injured. Where can I find the herbalist?”

  The man bent down. When he arose, he was swinging a sling in the air. I was unarmed below him and well within striking distance. I turned to run.

  A woman’s voice from behind the man spoke sternly but kindly, “Wait…put the sling down. Let us offer this boy our hospitality. I believe I know of this Baskrod. He is a fisherman.”

  I stopped. The man lowered the sling but still watched me carefully. The woman appeared at his side, wrapping her robe about her tunic and looked down at me. “Tell us, do you mean Baskrod, the fisherman?”

  “He is the old fisherman from faraway lands, the one with no webbing between his toes,” I said. “He has been struck with an arrow and will die if you do not help him.”

  “Are you injured?” The woman’s voice was gentle and concerned.

  “No, just Baskrod.”

  “Tell me, Amanki, son of Alallu of Arvuk: Where is Baskrod?” she asked.

  “I…I left him in his boat in the canal,” I stammered. “It is just the two of us. We barely escaped. I did the best for him that I could, but I am afraid that he is dying.”

  “If you are lying, I will kill you,” the bearded man broke in. “Wait where you are.”

  In a moment the man and the woman, who I presumed was his wife, appeared in the doorway dressed in long linen robes that covered their legs down to their webbed feet. The man had wrapped his sling around his head and was carrying a threshing flail. “How do I know that this is not a trap?” He eyed me warily, while his wife held a torch toward my face.

  “Where did you get all that blood?” the man asked.

  “Baskrod was bleeding heavily. It’s his blood from when I removed the arrow. It’s not a trap. Please believe me.”

  “I believe him,” the woman said. “I can read it in his face. The boy speaks the truth.” Then the woman turned to someone behind her and issued an order: “Simak, run quickly and fetch Manhera. Do not dilly-dally along the way. Tell her it is a matter of life and death. And make sure she comes alone.”

  “Yes, Mama.” A young boy darted out from behind her robes and began running toward a nearby house.

  “Very well,” the man succumbed. “Lead me to Baskrod. You were a fool to remove that arrow yourself.”

  “We must get to him quickly,” I said, ignoring the insult.

  The man took the torch from his wife and followed rapidly behind me.

  “I will return for Manhera, if he speaks the truth,” he said to his wife.

  I traced my way back to the shore, near where I had left the boat. I paused in the reeds and pointed.

  “He is there in the boat. I did not dare to move him. He is unconscious.”

  To my surprise, the man shoved the torch into my hand, handed me his robe, dove into the water, and paddled to the side of the boat. After a moment, he returned, his tunic dripping from his swim. He grabbed back the torch, held up his flail, and snarled at me.

  “If you left so quickly, how do you have so many supplies?”

  “I didn’t…I mean, Baskrod was the one…”

  “That boat is stocked for a long journey, not a sudden escape. You are a liar!”

  The last thing I saw was the rope and stick of his threshing flail as it swung toward my face.

  Chapter 4

  Rocks - Moshoi

  “Wake up Moshoi!”

  I could feel pressure on my shoulders, which was causing my body to move from side to side. I felt groggy and really did not want to acknowledge the sounds I was hearing or movement that I was feeling. It seemed as if I had just started sleeping. But the force on my shoulders increased and the shaking quickened to the point where I could no longer ignore it. A pungent odor drifted up my nose.

  “Wake up Moshoi!” I heard again.

  I stretched out my legs, uncurling my body from the ball it had been curved into, and then stiffly straightened my arms, reaching above my head. I opened my eyes and looked around. The image that appeared in front of me was blurry, but the source of the noise slowly came into view.

  “The new star! I saw it!” the excited voice said.

  The glazed picture of a face came gradually into focus and I could see the wide brown eyes and moving jaw of my brother, Tuka. Even in the dark cave, a vibrancy and playfulness seemed to emanate from Tuka like light reflects off a colorful patterned agate. The sparse golden brown scales on his chin spoke of his young age, though he acted as a watcher.

  My mouth was so dry I could not answer.

  “Argh,” was all I could say. I pulled myself up to my feet, but I found them unsteady, and my scaled back felt stiff and heavy. I took a wobbly step, trying to remember how to balance. Fortunately, Tuka knew how it felt to be awakened from hibernation, so he waited patiently. He handed me a bowl of water and I drank deeply. The cool water flowed down my throat like a mountain creek in the spring, reviving me. I finally smiled at my brother.

  “Is it time already?” I asked him, as he handed me some dried fruit. The three tribes of Hattom hibernated during summer droughts and thus conserved the dwindling food supply. Only a few watchers remained awake in order to make repairs, feed the animals, and stand guard in case of an emergency. This was my year to sleep, and Tuka’s to watch.

  “I didn’t know what to do!” Tuka exclaimed to me, as the scales on the top of his head lifted upright.

  Suddenly his excitement startled me. I wondered what he was talking about and whether there was some sort of emergency, since he had awakened me early. I glanced around at the curved stone walls and yakama wool rugs on the rock floor of the cave. The other members of our family were still curled up in balls sleeping, and I realized that Tuka was making no effort to awaken any of them.

  “Slow down Tuka, I’m still half asleep. Tell me what is happening.”

  Tuka took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. We all had been trained since childhood to use our minds to control our breath, our body temperature, and our heart rates through deep meditation. When determined necessary by a tribal leader, such as our father, we either warmed or cooled our bodies from the fires deep within, and were able to sleep for long periods of time. Of course, we adequately prepared by eating more during the plentiful season, waking up much thinner several months later.

  “It is not an emergency,” Tuka finally explained.

  “How long have I been sleeping?”

  “It has only been one moon since you became a rock,” Tuka responded.

  “Why would you unfold me, if there is no emergency?” I asked, becoming a little irritated with Tuka. He was younger than I, and perhaps the responsibility of being a watcher was a little too much for him. This was his first year as a lone watcher.

  “Remember how Rhabdom taught you the prophecy that begins with a new star that will appear in the sky?”

  “Yes, of course.” I said.

  “Well, I saw it. I went outside because I heard wolves howling. When I looked at the sky, just above one of the rock towers, a star, brighter than usual, caught my eye. It was as if the point of the tower was an arrow, poised to shoot right at the star, which was shining brightly under the wing of the Roc Constellation. Still, I wasn’t sure if it was the new star Rhabdom had predicted would appear. So I waited, and watched it, wondering if I should wake you. I’m sorry, Moshoi, but I was afraid if I woke you, it would be wrong, but if I didn’t wake you, it might be worse. So, finally I woke you.”

  “No worries, Tuka,” I said. “Show me th
e star.”

  Tuka and I wound our way past where the others slept. They were curved in their balls in a way that kept their soft bellies protected, but exposed the overlapping natural plates that covered their backs like armor. As I stepped through the rock hewn archway of our home onto our stone cut balcony and into the warm air, I was glad that it was evening so my eyes could gradually adjust to any light.

  Feeling dizzy, I leaned against our walled balcony. Tuka quickly handed me a handful of hazelnuts, which I began eating hungrily.

  Our home was carved out of the rocks, high on a hill that looked out across a plateau filled with formations which contained many other homes etched into rocky hills and natural towers. My surroundings fired my imagination. At night, creatures appeared in the sky in the form of stars. On sunny days, when I looked up into the puffy clouds, those clouds seemed to take on the forms of animals, people, and monsters. Likewise, the rock formations that stretched before me came in many shapes that my mind twisted into other creatures. One group of rocks looked like a crowd of giant men in long robes, with tall pointy wide brimmed hats. Other vertical rocks were capped with mound shaped stones that made them resemble humongous mushrooms. Beyond them were huge white spears with iron tips pointed at the sky, like a trap set to spear giants that fell from the clouds. Some oddly shaped stones balanced precariously upon rock towers. These white, black, tan, red, yellow, and pink formations on the ground were as natural as the clouds in the sky.

  Hattomian traditions told of ancient volcanic gods of fire from deep within the earth, and storm gods of wind from the sky that formed this land when battling on a grand scale. In my father’s blade smith’s shop, on a small scale, I had often imitated such works of creation when hammering metal into blades while the wind of my bellows stoked the fire. I no longer believed in the numerous traditional gods of my tribe, but there was truth in many of the tales, and I still shared a reverence and fear of fire and wind with all Hattomians.