The arrangement was that when Sheedi visited Ikfael, Ghitha would come with her in order to collect the bodies of his family. It’d be a long and arduous haul for me to move them, but there should be more than enough time to get the job done.
After Ghitha left, the kids and I toured the rest of the village and kept an eye out for the things we needed back home. Our shopping list included:
- Maple sugar
- Whatever we could find in the way of flour
- Yeast
- Salt, to restock our supply
- Any other herbs and spices available
- Clothes for all of us
- Tools, including a wood ax, saw, plane, shovel, hammer, and nails
To pay for it all, we had fifteen taak, two eltaak, two sets of chliapp lion razors, a bishkawi hide and the promise of more back at the Glen, and a small pouch of eilesheile powder.
The powder had already been treated by the uekisheile to make it safe for consumption. It was the item I had the most hope for—and the one I was most uneasy about. If the eilesheile was worth Woldec facing the kalihchi bear, it was worth stealing from a bunch of kids. It was also clear to me that Ghitha had been angling to learn more about the cave system in which it grew.
I had originally been planning to ask about the eilesheile’s value, but that was put on hold for now. Better to wait until I found a trusted business partner, and maybe arrange for secret deliveries. That way, people couldn’t track the supply back to us.
Voorhei was a decent-sized village with a population of about eight hundred, and it seemed like the people didn’t depend on anyone else for their basic needs. We didn’t find any merchants or general stores. For specialized goods, we were told about a smith and a potter in town, a mill and a tannery outside the walls, and a sugar shack in the woods. Also, once a week a peddler came through to supply the things that were hard to get or make at home. That was it.
The smithy belonged to a family, but no one was around when we stopped by, except for the owners’ son. Ellwa, who was human and had the Metal-Wise talent, told us the prices of the tools we were looking for.
The total cost for everything we wanted was thirty-five taak, which would wipe out our coinage. Ellwa didn’t think his parents would be interested in trading for hides, but thought the chliapp lion razors might intrigue them. He told us to stop by again when they were home, so we left without buying anything.
The miller’s name was Inglei. She was human with talents for being Meticulous and Constant. We learned from her that the villagers primarily ground corn, but they also collected wild acorns to grind for flour. More rare was something that sounded a lot like yucca. She said that folks also sometimes dried potatoes. As for other cereals, there was barley grown to the north, while wheat came from across the ocean. The only place she’d seen it for sale was the market in Albei.
The good news was that she was willing to trade some of her yeast and salt. It cost us one taak for a half-brick of yeast cake and a pint of salt. Woohoo! Two items acquired! Can I make donuts from ground corn or acorn flour? Maybe a fritter? I thought about it while we took a break along the stream’s bank.
The kids were happy to watch the mill’s water wheel turn and they chatted about everything they’d seen in the village. The clear blue sky, the burbling stream, the creaking and groaning of the water wheel—it wasn’t a bad place to be. The area was hot and humid, not as comfortable as the Glen, but not bad.
The heat eventually drove the kids into the water, but I had them move downstream from the water wheel first. I was comfortable free-ranging the children, but there was no reason to be stupid about taking chances. I kept an eye on the surroundings while they played.
Eventually, hunger drove us back into Voorhei and toward Biheila’s longhouse. We found her coming back just as we arrived; she was dirty and sweaty from being out in the fields. We watched her drink deeply from a jug, before ladling water onto her head, face, and hands.
“Hot today,” I said, the epitome of a conversationalist.
“Yes,” Biheila said. Her smile was fleeting. “But it is good for the cotton.”
Well, that was as good an opening as any, so I asked her about where I could buy cloth and clothing. She had the Natural Weaver talent, after all, and a loom sat in the corner of her longhouse. She should know a thing or two about either buying or making good clothes.
With a nod, Biheila walked me over to a wooden trunk. Inside were three separate sections, two of which were full of cotton and wool cloth, and she took out examples of each. The fabric in the first section was brightly colored. “This, my husband’s work.” The colors in the next section were more muted. “This, my wife’s.” The last section was empty. “Mine, all traded.”
Biheila carefully folded the fabrics before putting them back in the trunk and closing the lid. Her hands trembled as she opened a second trunk. The weave of the fabrics inside this one weren’t as even, and the dyes weren’t as consistent.
“My children’s work,” she whispered, gently stroking the material. A tear ran down her face.
There’d be no way she’d sell us this cloth—each sheet was a memento of her loved ones—but maybe we could commission new pieces? Ones without the weight of memory woven into the fabric.
“We need clothes,” I said.
“Yes,” she said, looking us over. She examined the weave of what we were wearing, tugged on the seams, and put her fingers through the holes. Her entire hand fit through the one in my jacket and shirt where Kaad had stabbed me.
Her lips pressed tight, and I saw a fire build behind her eyes. She seemed to steel herself to open yet one more trunk, this one full of finished clothes. Like an archeologist, she dug her way through the layers until she found shirts, pants, kilts, and tunics in our sizes. They were all used, but well-made and patched where necessary—not new, but taken care of. One batch tended toward pale blues and yellows, while another leaned toward ochre and rust.
Without a word, Biheila tugged the tunics off of Billisha and Aluali and started dressing them in the clothes. Tears leaked down her face, but her hands didn’t stop.
The clothes were big on the kids, but looked good. Aluali preferred the lighter colors, while Billisha liked the more muted ones. Biheila grabbed a length of cord and took the kids’ measurements.
When she reached for me, I grabbed her hands to stop her. With a smile, I gently said, “I change clothes myself.”
Flustered, Biheila said, “I am sorry. I forgot myself. You are guests.” She looked down at her hands, embarrassed.
I gave them a squeeze. “A person who cares for children—they are a friend to me. We are friends now, so no apology is needed.”
Biheila looked up in surprise. The idea of being friends with an eight-year-old must’ve been strange, because she searched my face.
It was just as I said though. Even if we’d just met, I was certain Biheila would throw herself in front of a bear—kalihchi or otherwise—to protect me and the kids from harm. My impression was that she was grieving, lonely, and hungry to love, especially children. I’d be a cretin to treat her poorly in response.
“Friends,” she said as if testing the word. Then with more confidence: “Friends, yes. You will call me Bihei, and I will help my friend.” With a mischievous grin, she tugged on the ties to my armor.
According to Bihei—it was a cute nickname—each piece of clothing when new would’ve cost between ten to fifteen taak, slightly more for the tunics. We haggled and arrived at a price of five to seven taak each for the pieces made from cotton. Wool was more expensive, but we had time until they would become necessary. We were still in the middle of summer.
So I handed her all our remaining coins—thirty-four taak—for clothing for the three of us. Sure, I could’ve driven a harder bargain, but I didn’t want to take advantage of Bihei. It was more important to me to nurture our budding relationship, both as friends and trade partners. Besides, the clothes were worth it, even used. There was no way I would have let the kids continue walking around town looking like beggars. The choice between that and metal tools was an easy one. The tools would just have to wait. We’d make do until we could afford them.
I didn’t wear my new clothes right away, though, as there was a sugar shack outside of Voorhei to visit. It was supposed to be about an hour’s hike to the northeast, and there was no sense in getting an outfit dirty.
Apparently, the kids and I weren’t the only ones eccentric enough to live in the woods, and Bihei wasn’t the only villager who’d lost her entire family during a winter solstice. The same thing had happened to a maple-sugar-making family three years ago. The survivor—a man named Bindeise—lived on his own almost an hour’s hike from the village.
In the winter, when the maple sap was flowing, he’d make two or three trips to Voorhei’s border to trade his syrup and sugar. Then, after that, he’d disappear for the rest of the year and wouldn’t come back until the sap started to run again.
My initiation into the Hunter’s Lodge was scheduled for sunset that day, so I had plenty of time to hike out and back before the ceremony started. I left the kids with Bihei and headed out.
It was weird to be back in the forest after the bustle and noise of the village. There’d been a lot that was new, and it was a relief to be on my own again. I couldn’t let my mind wander, though—not if I wanted to return safely—but the chance to focus on one thing and one thing only was welcome. Being at one with the land gave my busy mind a respite.
So I traveled through the trees and the underbrush, under the singing birds, and past the rustling small creatures. Under the sky and above the earth. The time flew by.
I’d been calling it a sugar shack in my head, because that was what they were called back in my previous world. When I arrived, though, I realized my mistake. Instead of a lonesome building in the woods, the ‘shack’ was a small fort. A ten-foot-high wall ran around a main house, a barn, and a building for rendering down maple sap into syrup. Or at least—that’s how it would’ve been before a fire ravaged the place.
The wall had been blackened, the inner circumference scorched, like someone had lit a bonfire and the wall was the ring around it. The other buildings and their interiors were similarly damaged. The iron work survived—enough to be salvageable—but everything made of wood or cloth had long ago turned to ash.
From the growth of the grass and bushes in the area, the fire didn’t look like it was that long ago. Maybe half a year? How unlucky. The village lost so much during the last Long Dark.
I found Bindeise’s skeleton lying in a corner of the main house. He looked as if he’d been sleeping. None of his flesh remained, only char and bones. There was no sign of a core, though, so at least I didn’t have to worry about him rising as a zombie.
The feeling around the place was weird. As dirty and blackened as the buildings were, they felt strangely empty. Even Bindeise’s skeleton felt unreal, like it was made of plastic and ready to be hung up in a biology classroom.
I gently touched the skull. “My apologies. I don’t mean to intrude, but I’m curious about something.”
The material was bone all right, but its qi was long gone. I wasn’t like mi abuela—I couldn’t read a creature’s life from its bones—but there was almost always some sense of it having lived.
Now that I looked, I found the same to be true for everywhere the fire had burned. I felt like I was on a film set and the remaining walls were props. Only the grass and the vines that had sprung up in the fire’s aftermath felt real.
I made a ball of spirit mana, just to see what it would do. At first it hovered above my palm, and then, as if a slight breeze blew, it drifted out of the house, out the gate, and into the woods surrounding the fort.
I followed the spirit ball to a gap between the trees. Lying there were the bones of another skeleton. Instead of being scarred by fire, though, this one had been picked over by scavengers. And also unlike the other, this skeleton felt more real, like it belonged to a person.
From the breadth of the shoulders and the narrowness of the hips, it looked like a man had died here. Was this Bindeise? And the other skeleton was some sort of decoy? Why would he do that? My mind started to spin out movie plot lines, but that was all they were—scenarios. I didn’t know the man, after all, and there wasn’t enough information for conjecture. Not really.
I whispered a prayer for the dead, and the hairs on the back of my neck rose. The spirit ball trembled as if it was touched by a ghost. The feeling wasn’t hostile, though. At least, not to me.
“Excuse me,” I said to the air, “I’m just going to put you in order, and then I’ll leave you in peace.”
I started to straighten the skeleton, but I didn’t like the feeling of being watched and had to fight the urge not to rush. Mi abuela wouldn’t have approved of rushing. Respect was important when dealing with the dead. The ones who weren’t hungry, anyway.
The bones were chewed up and broken, likely from the scavengers trying to get to the marrow. It took time and attention to get them all in order, which was how I found the notches in the ribs and the spine. The bones had been scored, straight as steel—not by claws or teeth, but by a knife. Someone had stabbed this man in the back.
