Mary Sands Excerpts from The Talisman of Kirja
Prologue
"Before the dawning of documented civilizations in southern Spain there dwelled an encampment of villagers known as the Kesars, who lived upon the coastal plains outside of the place we now know as Cartagena. The Kesars' time period is hazy."
Solana Gomez, librarian and proprietor of El Museo del Arte Costero in Cartagena, spoke in a voice cracked by years. It was 1928, and she'd lived a long life in pursuit of the unknown.
"Now, Cartagena was founded by Chief Asdruba, a Carthaginian, over 2,000 years ago. He named the city Quart Hadast. Never mind you the historical presence of Celts, Vandals, Phoenicians, Carthaginians, Romans, Byzantines, and Arabs in our fair seaside town, nor the invasions of Moors. The Kesars were among these very first occupants of southern Spain, probably descended from Iberians or native Spaniards, well before other documented colonies and invasions; it is written in the scrolls." Solana would tell this story slowly as she glared at her young audience over bespectacled features.
She would then lift her tired, old body up from its place on the heavy mesquite bench in the library's sitting room and disappear into a back room that led upstairs to an attic.
Re-emerging into the sunlit silence, she would carefully unfold the yellowed scrolls across a large desk fringed in leather braids. Her fingers often shook, but that was because of a medical disorder, not fear, even though the scrolls themselves seemed rich and important and as though they held ancient secrets. Her spectators, children--since the town's adults found Solana far-fetched and crazy--would shuffle their feet on the floor's masonry tiles and stretch their necks upward so that their dark eyes could view the strange words and maps contained within the vellum.
Solana's grandfather had given her the scrolls before he died and said, "Take care of these and do not let them into the hands of men. The scrolls present an unknown history of a time before the desert or sea people migrated into Spain, back when mysterious powers of evil and good clashed among the nights and days of hard-working artisans."
She had been only seven years of age at the time, but would spend a lifetime devoting her studies to history, language, and archaeology--anything that would help her understand the gift of the scrolls. Solana's grandfather had never told her the time period of when the scrolls were written, but the girl studied inks and decided that the scrolls must have been very ancient, dating back to thousands of years prior.
In her own day, ink was comprised of aniline dye as well as ethylene glycols and phenols. Before that, in Medieval Europe, writers used irongall inks, containing tannic acid, which worked better on the greasy surfaces of sheep or goat skins than even earlier ink, which was carbon-based and made of soot suspended in vegetable or animal fat.
The scrolls contained the very earliest type of carbon ink, and it appeared that the pens were made of reeds, or kalamos. In many places, the ink had smeared and Solana could not make out what might be important information. Her grandfather had taught her how to preserve the parchments with kerosene and lanolin, but needless to say the story of the Kesars had gaps.
The scrolls contained not alphabetic or phonetic language, but something more archaic: a mix of calligraphic and nature symbols, along with maps that showed Spain as distorted and stretched, compared to what modern cartographers would draw.
Solana spent years decoding the language of the scrolls that her grandfather had given her. She learned on her own to match symbols and find a language or portrait presented by drawings. Even as a young girl, she had studied the perplexing scrolls, only to finally see a tale emerging, upon which time she began to piece together information in order to paint a history.
She learned that the people were slightly nomadic and spent warmer seasons along the coasts, fishing and tending to gardens. They raised sheep, cattle, and horses. Their society seemed community-oriented with a strong focus on the family.
The Kesars had not yet evolved to an agricultural community with irrigation, though they did cultivate olives, almonds, grapes, oranges, lemons, limes, and peaches--as well as coffee and flax. They used Spanish native grass called esparto to make baskets and ropes. They also practiced pottery and metalwork. Large-scale farming would happen in later civilizations when grand plots of land were planted, but the Kesars never progressed that far.
The people might have spent colder seasons among the inland mesetas hunting. Some of the Kesars lived in the mountains too, in outlying primitive villages that did not compare to the eloquent life of the kingdom from which the scrolls appeared to have been written.
Solana had nicknamed her unknown people "Kesars" after the Spanish name Kesare, which meant long-haired, such as the drawings in the scrolls portrayed the villagers to be--all of them with long, black hair and graceful features. By the drawings, it appeared that the people were white-skinned, short, and physically very agile, though not too muscular.
Solana had married a shepherd named Rogelio when she turned of age, and commuted by horse-carriage from their hillside cottage down to Cartagena to work at the museo and library, which had been her father's businesses. She worked alongside two older brothers. As she grew older and realized she could not have children, Solana became aware of her husband's mistresses and subsequent children. The shepherd never left her though, probably thankful for his wife's inheritance, and any heartbreak on Solana's end was turned to more work on the scrolls.
By the time Solana became old and withered, she knew the Kesars as a native people who were rather isolated in their culture. The symbolic drawings of the scrolls related a long, well-preserved culture that was mostly solitary, including a central town along the coast near where Cartagena now existed, and neighboring villages. The high, jagged inland mountains prevented much journeying, especially during bitterly cold winters. The Kesars, though technologically competent with toolmaking, pottery, and even metallurgy, had also not yet built water craft larger than rafts or small boats used for coastal fishing. They might have sailed to the Balearic Islands and to Morocco, but probably no further; it wasn't an inherent focus depicted in the scrolls. No drawings or stories showed outsiders or invasions, even though modern history said that technology such as metallurgy was an effect of Phoenicians and others who traded along the Mediterranean coasts in a later time period. The contradictions were many.
The Kesars existed after Africans settled Iberia around 4000-3000 BC; however, their art was not reminiscent of African, Arab, Greek, Celt, Roman, or Visigoth influence. Kesar cosmology did not resemble the earliest Muslim beliefs, later Roman Catholicism, or anything between, rather spoke of strange gods and mythological creatures not specifically seen in other cultures.
Their burial rituals and ornate living headquarters seemed to be far more advanced than their times would suggest. Yet their time period could not have dated after documented manifestations and trade, due to the Kesars' cultural seclusion.
However, unlike the Basques from northern Spain, who had retained such a long history of solidarity, the Kesars seemed more mixed and less long-lived. Solana guessed that they were a mix of indigenous Spanish tribes mixed with early Lybians and Celts. The librarian was not sure whether the Kesars died out or were eventually assimilated by Africans or possibly Ligurians.
All her life, Solana was baffled about when, exactly, the Kesars did exist. The scrolls painted a picture of possibly 1500-1200 BC, probably no earlier. Solana felt that the Kesars existed too early for Phoenician influence, at least at the time the scrolls were written.
Solana had considered that the scrolls were made much later than the civilization existed, but who had made the scrolls and why?
Until her old age, heeding her grandfather's warnings, Solana never showed the scrolls to men. When her memory began to fail, she showed only children, appealing to younger minds who were innocent enough to truly believe her findings, or at least appreciate them.
When Rogelio died, Solana became lonely and retired. She took with her the scrolls and abandoned the rest of the world by retreating to her villa and hiring a boy named Tajo to tend to her husband's sheep. After her death, Tajo, who had been intrigued by the scrolls on sunny library afternoons, visited her cottage and searched for the ancient parchments. He saw no sign of them at the house, nor back at the library in the secluded attic room. But Solana's last diary entry, the only reference she had ever made to the scrolls or to the Kesars, said:
"My only regret is never pinpointing the exact century or even millennia that the Kesars inhabited Spain, but it is clear that their existence transposed time. Their technology and culture was beyond their times, yet they themselves pre-dated outside anything other than a small-scale immigration or trade.
Their simplified calligraphy and symbols do not match typical written language that would have evolved along with their obvious technology and economy. Their written language was archetypal of times before Sumerian cuneiform, and before alphabets developed by the Phoenicians and adopted by the Greeks. But that doesn't explain why their technology included such metallurgy as advanced sword-making, which didn't exist until centuries later. Their own culture overlapped itself: villagers resided in adobe structures and led simple lives, yet their central authorities lived in palaces boasting of gold and jewels. While a townsman might have hunted a deer with a bow and arrow or club, palace guards had swords and superior helms, platemails, and other armor.
To my knowledge, they could have very well existed in a parallel universe or in the mind of a storyteller.
I wonder about their destroyer god, a bleak and beastly ink drawing of a monster who seemed evil and could shape-shift, and who seemed to arise from the very hells of the center of the earth, and about their good gods, representing vitality and life. None of these gods matched those of Greco-Roman, Celtic, Arabic, or even early Iberian legends. The only similarity to later religions, namely Catholicism, was a double-armed cross in several drawings--this cross depicted on the belly of the beast, their evil god.
It wasn't until my retirement that I realized this cross was similar in appearance to the "true cross" of nearby Murcia, which first miraculously appeared in the city in 1231 and is said to have wood from the same cross on which Jesus was crucified. It draws a pilgrimage every seven years and has been blessed by the Vatican. The true cross has "miraculously appeared" in various cities. It is supposedly the very cross on which Jesus was crucified.
Dutch humanist Desiderius Erasmus Roterodamus said that so many churches claimed to have found the true cross or parts of it that there would be enough wood from each cross to build a great ship.
The symbolism of this cross may have transposed several religions and cultures, even paganism, and might not have represented crucifixion, but the detail of the drawing was very similar to pictures I've seen of the cross at Murcia. However, I've never made the connection between the cross on the beast's belly and any other sign of Judeo-Christianity or Roman Catholicism in Kesarian artwork. Now I'm old, too tired to travel to find out more.
To be sure, the people were believers of the supernatural, as were most early and even some modern cultures and societies. They practiced primitive forms of sorcery as well as worshipped their gods of life-giving forms. Their technology seemed to have transcended centuries, too, as drawings of swords and clubs existed alongside each other. These things never made sense to me.
I often wish that I would have asked Grandfather more about the scrolls, and why he gave them to me or where he had gotten them. I wish I would have asked him why men could not see. I was too young, and my grandfather so ill at the time. Perhaps he saw me early on as many would see me later: eccentric, foolish, yet calculating and hard-working in my own professions.
He might have guessed in some preternatural way that I would never bear children to pass such a gift to, but that I would need a diversion to my future husband's infidelity. He gave me something that he must have known would be the work of my life: a follower of alternative possibilities and dreams, a believer in the incredible who would work my entire life to bring credence to such dreams. Only as it turns out, I found no definitive answers, only more questions. I will hide the scrolls where no man should ever think to find them, but where a child might."
Tajo tucked the diary into his wool jacket and decided to keep it his secret, and hers.
Part I
PremonitionsWho can say whether the sun is most beautiful at dawn or at dusk? Who can tell whether the olive tree or the almond tree is the more beautiful? Who can say tell whether Andalusia or Valencia breeds the bravest knight? What man can say who is the fairest of women?
-Prosper Mérimée, from 'The Pearl of Toledo"
Chapter 1
Emeldia awoke after the second full moon of autumn and climbed out of her bed before the dark of night had left. Her strawbed, covered by the skin of an ibex, was made of gall oak but creaked even as her small body descended from it. She had heard something, sensed a shadow passing over the moon, but wasn't sure.
The young girl eyed her older sister Chala, who always slept well, and was indeed asleep without a stir in her own bed against the other wall of their small room. Moonlight streamed in through an open window built high above in the adobe walls. Chala's long hair wound around her pretty face, and Emeldia considered jarring her sister awake, but decided not to.
Emeldia made her way through the open doorway leading from their tiny sleeping area to their parent's alcove, and up the ladder to her brother's room. He slept in the family granary, which opened to their final room, a roofless patio where she and Chala would grind and bake wheat later today and where Father would solder metal bits together for the jewelry and figurines that Mother and Chala would create. The patio contained a clay oven as well as a small pantry where Mother stored copper, gold, and other precious metals along with almonds, dried fruit, and wheat grain. A small portion of the closet was filled with deer meat, which hung from wooden hooks and had been salted for preservation.
The girl exited the patio and padded down uneven cold, clay steps toward the dirt road that encompassed her village and was bounded on both sides by stacked pueblo residences like hers. The road eventually circled northwest to the main market and then up to the castle of Bediz. The south end of the road led outside the village's gates to a well-worn path on which the townspeople journeyed to the inland plains, forests, and even the distant mountains. To the east of town lay a large burial ground, where adobe rooms held the artifacts and cremations of those dead who had held much notoriety, as well as smaller rooms with earthen jars of the dead.
She would not go to the castle, for it was always secured by guards and noblemen, and Emeldia was afraid of the burial grounds, but she might venture south into the woods to understand what was out there and kept waking her up night after night. Her dreams involved animals of some sort, but the vague essence of these nightly ventures seemed held at bay from the girl. Emeldia was only a little frightened. Curiosity beat fear, and she tiptoed down the road that exited town on the opposite side of castle.
The forest was a dark place at night for its trees intermingled and didn't let in star light. Twisty shapes of junipers as well as their tall, intimidating cousins, enebro trees, rustled in the steady Mediterranean breezes among various oaks and pines. Out in the clearings would be carobs and small groves of olive trees. Emeldia walked past the town gate and into the first clearing, where a few stands of oak sided the Heggian river, which winded through the hillsides and emptied into the sea.
Her people had built a wooden drawbridge over the river, and Emeldia crossed it swiftly. She felt small and bewildered, almost as if a force were drawing her. She wrapped her cloak about her tighter, for even in this climate, the dead of night was chilly.
Emeldia felt an innate sense of foreboding, a mysterious change coming that had nothing to do with weather or any other logical entity. She didn't like this sensation of fear and wanted to run back home and hide in her room with Chala. But something pulled her further toward the woods. Even if she were in her bed with the ibex skin wrapped around her, the strange and seemingly malevolent force would wake her up, as it had been lately.
Emeldia would have told her parents, but they already believed that their daughters were touched. She had been showing signs of premonitions, and the only time she had spoken of it her mother had sent her to speak to Sir Caton at the castle. He was a dark man, with his long hair in braids. This was last winter when the rich men went from wearing fine summer robes to the best skins in the land. Caton's full outfit, including gold embroidered boots and an armored breastplate, was intimidating. His eyes were beady and devoid of emotion. In the end, the nobleman had scared her into being afraid of herself. She had had recurring dreams of Kirja, the god of evil who brought famine and drought, and who had been said throughout history to murder villagers and bring disease and plagues.
Caton had referred Emeldia to the town cleric, Frolin, who told the girl's parents she was probably possessed. In most cases, this would result in the girl's death and torture, if it were not for the fact that the king feared killing her would result in a threat to evil forces, in which case they might come for revenge. Nor could the village toss her to the wilds outside the village, for the same reasons. In the end, it was decided that she take certain herbs to exorcise bad spirits. Emeldia, knowing that she was indeed sane, pretended to be cured, but that didn't stop her nightmares, nor her fears.
Poor Chala, too. Chala had been born with strange eyes: the color of green, whereas all the villagers had brown eyes. The town of Bediz knew few outsiders. Some trade happened among nearby coastal villages or inland mountain families belonging to other clans, but nobody had ever seen such an eye color resembling the color of jade. Fortunately for Chala, her life was spared as well, since after a village meeting, the king had decided that she might be special and possess charms or spiritual powers of goodness that could help the village in times of trouble. Everyone was still waiting to see if this would come true. And, as Emeldia had often seen, several young men eyed her older sister with lust. Being different wasn't all too bad, and Chala was very beautiful in an odd way.
Emeldia tried to focus on thinking of these things while she traversed the clearing into the wooded path that her townspeople had made when out gathering nuts or cutting wood. Meanwhile, the wind picked up and it sounded like howling voices that were not of this earth.
The girl reached the edge of the path and stopped. Should she go on? Her mind raced with fear. Beyond this clearing, dark trees embraced thickly, and sometimes the path was unsurpassable. Even though the moon shone brightly, the woods would be black and unforgiving. She should have brought a torch, but didn't want to get the attention of anyone who might also have had a night that sleep didn't come easily.
She stepped onto the path and heard small noises. Who knew what would be awake here, or what she might be awakening: lynx, rabbit, deer, anything. She precariously walked on, gauging each step and ready to allow her flight reflexes to take hold at any given notice. As she made her way into the woods, stumbling here and there over roots, she wondered what she might accomplish or even find. But she kept going. It was as if she was meant to be here, even though she did not know why.
Soon she was surrounded by a cave of darkness; even if she looked back she wouldn't see the distant but familiar torchlight of her village's gates. She could not get lost on the path, not yet. There was one way in, and the trail would not fork off for a long time. If only she would stay coherent and not be afraid or get disoriented, she could still quickly run back to the village. Emeldia decided to stop and force a branch into the soil, anyway. Once it was in like a stake, she bent it toward the direction she had come…just in case she did begin to get confused. Going in circles was never good, and she could find the marker later.
In another hour or so, the sun would begin to draw up over the horizon, and the villagers would rise and begin their daily chores. Why did it seem that the sun took so long to ascend during the hour before dark violet light began to cross the sky? The hour before the sleepers awoke? Emeldia had once heard her father say "To sleep next to the moon would be to die." But he had been drinking wine, and Emeldia hadn't understand what he meant.
The girl heard a strange bellowing noise and stopped, frozen in mid-walk. The sound was like a black pig's, and that would not be good. She'd forgotten that sometimes boars ventured this close to the outskirts of the woods. Even though their staple diet was acorns, Emeldia felt sure that her flesh would be an exquisite meal. Carefully, she inhaled and exhaled, but didn't make a sound. She could feel the light covering of hairs on her arms prick up, her heart beat faster. Something in her body was jetting through, causing her blood to boil and her face to flush, even against the dull chill in the woods.
She was just about to make the decision to forget her silly outing and turn to run quickly back home, when she saw a greenish light began to appear around her in a perfect circle. The light was not just an aura; it was a holding spell, not allowing her to move. Emeldia stared straight ahead, far more frightened than she'd ever been in her life. She definitely wanted to terminate this excursion and run as fast as possible back to the village gates, but she could not.
The light became brighter, but still fuzzy around the edges, and Emeldia became more frozen, so much so that even her breathing became difficult.
Finally she saw her captor. It was none other than Abejund, who was the town wizard. He stood before her in his own circle of light that had just appeared, only his light was bright white. It was as if he had been there the entire time and had just now decided to make his presence known.
Because Abejund had magical powers, his eyes, normally brown and kind, turned blue and ice-like, in a gesture for her to remain as still as possible. Emeldia felt that when she had the thought "I am still, because you won't let me move," he might have nodded or winked. His eyes were aglow with the fever caused by his powers when they were activated. The girl and the wizard stood like that for several moments, staring at each other, until he finally released her and she fell flat to the ground, as if drained of all spiritual energy that she might contain.
She was still aware of what was happening but was too tired to speak or move, and allowed Abejund to use his staff to transport them both to the village gates, in one quick bolt. Once there, he hustled her into the town and walked her swiftly back to her residence. He said nothing the whole time, but seemed angry.
Abejund was the only person to ever leave town on a regular basis, far more than any hunter would do, and sometimes he wouldn't return for weeks. Children were awed by him, and adults were both intimidated by him but felt safer when he was around. All her life, Emeldia couldn't remember any event in which Abejund had to take care of any business other than minor problems, such as the time a drifter from the south had come up and stolen crops, or another time when a band of thugs had come to destroy boats and steal fish. Abejund quickly had cast his spells, which had gotten rid of the wrongdoers, but mostly he was a benevolent soul who used his powers to bless and keep safe. When he was away, the townspeople were more on edge. Emeldia had not seen him for a week until tonight.
"You must never venture out past the town's gate by yourself again, child," he said, leaning down to her once they reached her adobe home. His long silver hair glistened in the moonlight, and his eyes still were blue, but not glowing or bright as they had been.
"I kept hearing something out there," she said. Had she spoken too soon? The wizard might tell the king, and she would be forced to take those nasty herbs again in order to rid her of her bad spirits that caused her to do these things.
But Abejund seemed to have bigger things on his mind. His hands were long and bony, and he touched her head, whereupon she felt a warm peace take over her body. "There are things in this world that might call you to harm," he explained, "and you must avoid them at all costs. I might not be around next time to protect you. I should tell you also that you caused my own duties tonight to be delayed."
Emeldia hung her head down, could feel her chin touch her cloak. A tear might fall; but she mustn't! She mustn't cry.
Abejund picked up her chin with his hand and said "You have a gift, Emeldia, and you will use it someday. For now you are too young to realize it, and so you must stay a child for longer and allow elders like myself to take care of these things at night that brood across the land. Promise me that you will not venture out again."
Emeldia looked at him again and shook, and then shivered more. "I will not," she said, even though she had so many questions. What power did she possess? What was really out there in the woods? What was he fighting? Would he be okay? But instead, she nodded to him and promised.
"Now go back to bed before the day comes, and sleep." His hand waved across her face, and she once again felt a warmth from him, only this time it was the type of heat that propelled her to be suddenly and extremely fatigued. She nodded again and watched him disappear into the night. She did not remember going back to bed, though when she woke up a couple hours later, Emeldia noticed that her cloak, which was hung on a rack by her bed, had dirt on its lower hems.
Chapter 2
Galen awoke from the dream and sat upright, as was his first reaction. He couldn't remember the dream, nor could he recall why it had frightened him so. After a moment he decided to go on with the day, for today was a big day in the village.
He bounded out of bed and summoned his personal servant Lian for a bath. The girl came humbly and said no words. She drew water, and while Galen was bathing she laid out his best attire: the skin from the most mature and healthy caribou--leather that upheld in the harshest winters but was light enough for a cool evening. Among his clothing were boots that laced to the knee, a leather armor whose sleeves cut off at his shoulders, and a pair of gloves that were dressed with golden jewels.
Galen never had understood the necessity to dress up. However, it was expected by his father, the king. The festivities would be for show, and he would be on parade. He would endure the night and exchange pleasantries, but secretly would await the soonest chance to go off by himself, perhaps to a balcony to think.
As it was, he felt like a black sheep, the prince to be named heir, who wasn't performing his job. Growing up as his father had deemed, he practiced the art of the long sword, an apprentice to Caton's cousin, Senon. Galen had exceeded in the sword, but had secretly admired both the art of the local minstrel Castel and the fighting arts of the town's bowman, Fondo.
Quiet musings at sundown's and frolicking once naked along the coast when Galen had thought nobody was looking had peppered his father with the fear that his son would not become a great king, an accomplished fighter, or a man of ruling words. They'd argued often. Galen tried to point out that a man who was meant to lead his followers into anything, whether it be polity or battle, should be well-versed in many walks of life and truly understanding. But his father, of the old world, would retaliate that the kings were bred to be murderous conquerors, at which point Galen would laugh and say, "We don't need to have conquests nor protect ourselves from warriors, for we are alone."
Galen dressed and imagined the day: a festival of olives, with several consecrations to be held, including his own as marksman. Last year he'd received an award for swordsmanship; today he would be honored for his work with Fondo in archery. Though the king had not totally approved, he finally agreed that the more skills his son learned, the better he would be in leading their village.
"To what?" Galen had asked.
"With our neighboring villages coming to the olive festival, we must show them that we are very well prepared to fight any wrongdoers as well as that we are highly skilled in the prospect of battle. It is both a warning as well as a statement of security."
"What is there to rule, father? How many battles have we seen in our lifetime? None. We are a peaceful community with our neighbors."
"And better to keep it that way, Galen. Talk is that troubled times are on the way. Rumor is that some people have seen strange vessels out at sea, and there is gossip that people from the South will sail to our shores and disrupt our way of life, perhaps try to make conquests."
Galen nodded. His father made sense, but sometimes the old man seemed to be too ritualistic for seemingly no reason but to carry on. Carry on what?
Galen enjoyed the festivities surrounding the olives, however. The day would be bright and filled with color and music. There would be wine and plenty of food. The celebration of the olives was held each autumn after the harvest of the fruit.
Families would come in droves, long lines through the countryside, on their horses or donkeys. They would walk or ride for miles and cart their olive-filled wagons through the hillside, down to the coastal wonder known as Bediz. If Father was right about anything, it was his protective nature of Bediz, the place of "natural beauty" that woke up each morning to a Mediterranean haze and softly slept at night.
Galen, now dressed, was not expected to make an official presence in the village until the sun would be high in the western sky, but he mutually saluted various noblemen as he walked from his room down an ornate stairwell to the main foyer. He regarded its high ceilings and maroon draperies with a sense of cynicism because the rest of the villagers lived in small, stacked adobe structures.
Golden statues of hoopoes, the highly respected orange-black bird of the area, lined the walls to protect the castle from bad spirits. Floors were inlaid with royal mosaics and golden-fringed rugs. Each rug was decorated with a totemic, such as the horse or the imperial eagle, whose grace and strength symbolized the objectives of Bediz kingdom.
Galen fled the palace quickly and bound down its long stone steps into the village, where he knew he would be noticed but would just as well stay as anonymous as possible. As he turned the corner into the marketplace, he saw several women already extracting olive oil. They would fill a tight netting with the fruit and tie each end of the sack to a wooden pole. By using a crank to twist the sack over and over, they would tighten the material against the olives until oil began to ooze out, into a large ceramic dish below. Sometimes, with larger cultivation, there were large mashing parties, after which donkeys would pull olives through cranks and presses, but not today.
It was with olive oil that they would fry wheat cakes, vegetables, and meat later today. Galen had not yet eaten, and could feel his stomach grumble.
Along the dirt streets of the village, women in bright red robes were decked out for the day. Their long, dark hair shone from recent washings, and most wore copper bracelets, rings, and hairpieces. The women of Bediz were very beautiful, Galen thought. Their normally fair skin was pleasantly tanned this time of year, and their lips and eyes full and innocent-looking. Children ran at their mother's wide hems, and fathers drank wine and chatted on corners with their friends.
Goats walked about the streets, and their bells jingled, prompting a cheerful day. Up in the hills, Galen could see herds of sheep, and from here they looked like white cotton toys roaming in the distance.
The local butcher Dorot had a small audience of children. With his assistant, he hoisted two large boars high above firepits and tied the animals to skewers, where they would be turned and roast all day. These boars would help provide enough meat for the hundreds who would gather here tonight. Dorot would not let any part of the animal's meat go to waste. He would make stews from the hooves and give the different pork cutlets later to his wife and other woman for serving in various ways.
There would be bean stews and almond soups, roasted tripe, fried bread and wheat meals mixed with pork and chestnuts, green and block olives in salads and by themselves for snacking, cheese sauces and soups, onions, garlic, lobsters, and pastries made with almonds and peaches.
Galen walked through town, his eventual goal to visit a man named Gito whose arrival had supposedly been early this morning. Gito dwelled in the mountains that lied several days walking distance to the West, the far range of the upper Seranj. He was a loner who dressed in skins and had a way with animals. Father had given Galen the responsibility of greeting the humble mountain man and inviting him to dine with at the palace tonight.
"What is important about Gito?" Galen had asked the king this morning.
"He may be able to help us understand some recent problems."
"Problems?"
"This shall be discussed in private tonight. Don't worry, son. In attendance will be myself, you, Gito, Abejund, Caton, Senon, Fondo, and several others. All will be discussed then and not before. You must not say anything to the villagers, or even to Gito himself. Merely present the invitation."
Galen had felt a chill go up his spine. Somehow the meeting and its members seemed to tie in with the bad dream that Galen had jolted awake from this morning, but he couldn't remember anything about it. As Galen walked, his mind was clouded by strange warnings, and the color of the day faded out. He walked without paying attention to his surroundings now, though the smell of olive oil was something he couldn't avoid.
Gito would be camped near the south gates of the village, which led into the forest. Galen walked in that direction, away from the marketplace. As he walked he faintly heard the sounds of Castel and his troupe playing their stringed instruments and drums. A flurry of color swished and swirled in Galen's peripheral vision. He was becoming worried, though. Father had too often mentioned outsiders and conquests. Could it be that their way of life would be threatened by foreigners? Never had the village of Bediz or its neighbors seen any perils larger than an occasional thief or drunk. Their way of life had been this way forever, throughout time as they knew it. There were stories of far-off lands and wars, and evil forces clashing with gods, but so far those things had been as distant as any fiction or imaginative tale.
Galen felt uneasy at the thought of change and corruption. Something stopped him in his path. He had reached the south gate. Several neighbors were making their way into the fortress, but that is not what caught Galen's attention. It was a cloud passing over the sun that brought a distinct chill, a peculiar wind. He looked up to the sky and for a split-second he felt fear, as if something out there was making its presence known.
When he glanced around at the crowd again his eyes immediately rested on a woman who had been also staring at the sky, as if she had seen what he had seen, or at least felt. A quick gaze at the rest of the crowd told Galen that nobody else had noticed anything: just he and the girl. He didn't recognize her immediately. It was not often that Galen was allowed to mingle with villagers, down at their level. As he approached the girl, however, he realized that she was the one that people said had strange eyes. He was sure he'd never seen her up close, and if he had he would have remembered, because as he neared her, she seemed to discern his thoughts and his presence and turned directly to stare at him as her eyes dropped from watching the sky. He would have remembered such a face, such smooth skin and beautiful eyes that were the color of the sea in its jade depths. She was thin and taller than most young women. Her face was determined and strong. Her lips naturally red, too, and Galen, though feeling he should ask her what she'd seen in the sky, felt so mesmerized by her appearance that he, for the first time in his life, said nothing when he stood directly before her.
She bowed to him, and he cupped her elbow. It was not necessary to bow to the prince, he thought, at least not a lovely creature such as this. He moved her upward from her lowered bowing position and said, "You saw something in the sky the same time I did, didn't you?"
The girl looked at him, puzzled. She had in her hand a small flamingo made of gold. Yes, that was it, recalled Galen. This was Chala of Sandok, the daughter of the local jeweler. Her sister was Emeldia, the one who'd come into the castle last winter and needed to be exorcised. If not for the family's metal work and notoriety as excellent craftsmen, the daughters might have had a tougher life. As it was, people regarded the girls as strange, but villagers were a bit intimidated by their differences as well. People mostly left the girls alone. Galen could see how frightened Chala was that she was approached by the prince, and he didn't want that.
"Come with me," he suggested. He held out his arm to Chala who slowly accepted it and walked with him down the road and out of the gates.
He led her north, away from the bridge, which several families were crossing to get to Bediz. He moved with her quickly, feeling as though he were under a spell, until they reached a high hillside that overlooked the village and the sea below. He wanted to be alone with her, not only to talk without everyone looking, but because he felt drawn to her immediately.
"My name is Prince Galen," he finally said. He shook out his hand. The girl seemed frozen, but did look at him directly. She slowly lifted her much smaller hand to his.
Her hand was warm and vibrant, thought Galen. He felt something with her that he couldn't describe, as if he were home or belonged here. "You are Chala?" he asked.
"Yes, Chala of Sandok." Her reply was clear and strong, yet she still seemed to be mystified about his confrontation. Her grasp on the flamingo was strong, as though she needed to hold onto something.
"There's no need to be afraid, Chala. I am the prince, but my thoughts are ordinary and I'm not here to intimidate you."
She nodded. A wisp of black hair fell across her face. Galen thought he could see the hint of a smile.
"What did you see up there?" He gestured to the sky.
She slowly shook her head. "Nothing, really. Perhaps a cloud crossing the sun. A change of wind direction. I don't know what made me look."
He grabbed her hand and pulled her slowly to sit with him on the grassy plateau. "Me neither," he beamed. "But just that we both looked at once. It perplexes me, as if we had a moment that nobody else sensed."
"I felt frightful," she told Galen. "Something didn't seem right, but when I looked around, there was nothing abnormal."
"Just a feeling, right?"
"Yes, you could call it that."
The girl seemed to be warming up to him. She opened her mouth to say something, but then stopped.
"What is it, Chala?" He liked saying her name, felt that the syllables rolled off his tongue easily and sensually.
"Nothing, just that…"
"Tell me. You can trust me."
Chala searched his face. Then she said, "I really must be going. I need to help my mother and sister get our birds out to display. We're hoping to sell or trade them today."
Galen nodded. "Okay, but I am going to tell my father and the guardsmen that if you ever need to talk with me, they must allow you into the palace. I don't want you to be afraid."
Chala arose and said "I will." And she ran off down the hill, the yellow of her day gown flying after her like a large petal on the wind. Galen could not stop watching her, and when she faded out of sight, he felt as though he'd just awoken from a dream.
