I
The last thing I remember is going
to bed in my room in Aquila, the house Papa and I share, drifting off to the
distant drumming of the Lord’s Militia signalling day’s end. But now my eyes
are open wide seeing nothing but dark. No strip of moonlight through the gaps
of my window shutters, no winking stars. When I press my eyelids down briefly
there’s not even the weird lines of light that usually show up. I turn my head
this way and that. It’s like a sandstorm at night hiding moon and stars, except
there’s no stinging grit against my skin, no song of sand and wind.
I stretch out my arms; groping hands touch nothing, no bed covers, no wooden bed frame. A chill breeze lifts the hair from my neck. My naked feet stand on a rough surface. Not a wood floor, maybe rock or cobblestones? I could be sleep walking, standing out in the street in front of our house. It’s unbelievably quiet – no leaves hissing in a breeze, no creaking branches. No squeaky wheels of a late night cart, no footsteps. A speck of brightness off to one side draws my eyes. I squint as it slowly grows larger. Hope by this light to see the outline of my window or the walls of a familiar house, but instead dark shapes stand against an indistinct and slightly clearer background. None of the shapes look like anything I recognize.
A whispering voice: “Samel.”
I take a step forward. “Who’s there?”
A sudden flare obliterates everything and my eyes swim. Quick as a darting fish, my fist knuckles the wet away. I’m just seeing clear again when icy liquid gushes over my feet, making me jump and almost slip. But I spread my legs and get balanced. Fire blazes and steam rises as water meets fire. I flail at the mist, can’t see. Heat presses, wetness drips from my skin. I open and shut my eyes, take deep breaths. What is happening? Where am I?
When I open my eyes again early morning light fills my bedroom, familiar, ordinary. Just another dream. My fist pounds the mattress. What am I supposed to get from this? It doesn’t make sense.
Bedding tangles around my waist and legs; my body’s slick with sweat. I push at the scratchy blanket, but it’s twisted into knots and won’t budge. I stretch a leg; my toe rips a hole in the sheet.
“Talons and beaks!” My voice cracks the way it’s been doing lately. Good thing I’m not wanting to be a singer. Voice going, skin itchy, toenails too long, almost like an eagle’s. Making a mess and not fitting.
In my head I can hear the other drum apprentices snickering. Yesterday one of them muttered to another, “Clumsy as a new born camel.” Knew they were talking about me. Turned to glare at them. Don’t know what I’d have said or done, but Tamtan, the drum master, walked in just then and we all bent to our work.
I glare at my knobby knees. They do make me think of camel legs. Except their toes don’t look like mine. I can hear Papa now: “If you’d pay more attention you’d notice your toenails are too long. Cut them!”
The sheets are old, too thin. That’ll be my excuse when I ask Papa for coin to buy new bedding. Still, he won’t be happy about it. It’s not like we’re poor, though. Papa’s stipend as a Lord’s musician has always been enough to take good care of us. I’m sure Tamtan’s other apprentices resent me partly because of that. None of their fathers are musicians of the calibre of Papa.
I shove all the bedding away. Too hot. The dry season is usually scorching in Aquila, but this is the worst I remember. Good thing Rowan isn’t here – she’d find it harder to take than me. Sister, where are you now? I should have defied Papal, snuck away and joined the caravan to travel with you.
Most of my life I’ve done what Papa wanted or argued him round to my side. Man and boy living together, we didn’t always agree, but sorted things out and I was happy enough. That changed after Rowan came. And now she’s gone again, who knows for how long? Life should be easier, but it isn’t.
The dream. Was it about Rowan? Maybe she’s in danger. I scramble out of bed, dragging the bedding to the floor and leaving it. Rummage in the wooden chest at the foot of my bed and pull out the silver circlet of linked ivy leaves, slip it onto my wrist. Mysterious, magical bracelets that came from our parents, one each. I thump to the floor, struggle with my unruly legs, then settle. Close my eyes and think of my sister; picture her long hair, dark like Papa’s, her grey eyes that I’ve been told are like our mother’s. My concentration slips.
I’ll never see Mother again, can’t even remember her. Did I call her Mama? Did she ever sing to me? Maybe I got my musical abilities from her as well as Papa. I was too young when Papa and I left her and Rowan. And Mother’s been dead for over a year now.
I scratch an itchy toe. Tailfeathers! Better cut my toe nails before they do more damage. Get clothes on. The house is quiet though I can tell by the angle of the sun shining through my window that it’s still early. Papa’s either asleep or gone already to the river bank, to the old barracks of the Lord’s Militia. They’ve been mostly empty for years, the grounds allowed to grow wild, but Papa and his musician friends along with other artists of Aquila are changing that. They’ve joined designers, stone masons, carpenters and labourers to turn the dilapidated buildings into an arts school.
I sneak across the landing and peek into his room. No Papa, bed made neatly, bedding stretched tight as a drum head. It was under that bed I found my bracelet. Papa’s really, but it had abandoned him. He wasn’t happy about that.
I rattle down the stairs. No Papa anywhere. Why didn’t he wake me this morning as he’s been doing ever since Rowan left? Drag me along as usual with him to the school when I don’t have other duties. Not that I’m sorry to be left at home. At the building site I’d just be hanging around waiting for someone to find tasks for me: carrying tools, cutting grass, cutting brush. Scut work is no fun and not that good for a musician’s hands.
I search for a note. Today is supposed to be my day for working with Papa – composing, playing the flutes, cleaning and repairing them if necessary. If he doesn’t come back for that’ll be the third lesson we’ve missed since Rowan went. The arts school is important, but so am I!
The food cupboards hold bread, honey, butter, a bit of cheese, figs. I’m not really hungry yet. Why didn’t he leave me a note? Even to say, practise the flute or go get more food. “You’re old enough to figure that out for yourself.” That’s what he’d say, and it’s true. I’m not stupid and he’s never said that I am. But we used to talk more, spend more time together.
I wander into the living room. One of the big woven baskets the women from the Grasslands People brought sits there, full of sheet music. Papa copied some, but I did most of it. I leaf through a few sheets, put them back, finger the basket. It’s really well made. They could sell these for a good price in the market here.
The Grasslands People wanted help to find some missing children. That’s what Rowan’s gone to do, and I know they helped her when she was trying to find Papa and me so I guess she felt she owed them. Still, it seems odd that they couldn’t look for the children themselves. Would Rowan have gone if she’d been happier with us? Maybe my fault.
I’ll try again to talk to my sister. Sit, breathe deeply, touch the bracelet, close my eyes and concentrate. Sometimes that will work and I get some kind of picture, but today I wait until my knees start to cramp and my arms itch. No visions. Weird that I had that dream and now nothing. Still so much to learn about how and why the bracelets work and why they don’t. Was my dream influenced by the bracelet even though I wasn’t touching it or was it just an ordinary strange dream? No answers just sitting here and now my belly’s rumbling.
I’m munching bread and cheese when there’s a rat-tat at the door. Hope its Ali from across the street. I haven’t seen her in a couple of days and she’s always working on something interesting; I could help her, though I should practise the flute. A boy stands outside, a messenger from Papa: he does want me at the river bank.
I stretch out my arms; groping hands touch nothing, no bed covers, no wooden bed frame. A chill breeze lifts the hair from my neck. My naked feet stand on a rough surface. Not a wood floor, maybe rock or cobblestones? I could be sleep walking, standing out in the street in front of our house. It’s unbelievably quiet – no leaves hissing in a breeze, no creaking branches. No squeaky wheels of a late night cart, no footsteps. A speck of brightness off to one side draws my eyes. I squint as it slowly grows larger. Hope by this light to see the outline of my window or the walls of a familiar house, but instead dark shapes stand against an indistinct and slightly clearer background. None of the shapes look like anything I recognize.
A whispering voice: “Samel.”
I take a step forward. “Who’s there?”
A sudden flare obliterates everything and my eyes swim. Quick as a darting fish, my fist knuckles the wet away. I’m just seeing clear again when icy liquid gushes over my feet, making me jump and almost slip. But I spread my legs and get balanced. Fire blazes and steam rises as water meets fire. I flail at the mist, can’t see. Heat presses, wetness drips from my skin. I open and shut my eyes, take deep breaths. What is happening? Where am I?
When I open my eyes again early morning light fills my bedroom, familiar, ordinary. Just another dream. My fist pounds the mattress. What am I supposed to get from this? It doesn’t make sense.
Bedding tangles around my waist and legs; my body’s slick with sweat. I push at the scratchy blanket, but it’s twisted into knots and won’t budge. I stretch a leg; my toe rips a hole in the sheet.
“Talons and beaks!” My voice cracks the way it’s been doing lately. Good thing I’m not wanting to be a singer. Voice going, skin itchy, toenails too long, almost like an eagle’s. Making a mess and not fitting.
In my head I can hear the other drum apprentices snickering. Yesterday one of them muttered to another, “Clumsy as a new born camel.” Knew they were talking about me. Turned to glare at them. Don’t know what I’d have said or done, but Tamtan, the drum master, walked in just then and we all bent to our work.
I glare at my knobby knees. They do make me think of camel legs. Except their toes don’t look like mine. I can hear Papa now: “If you’d pay more attention you’d notice your toenails are too long. Cut them!”
The sheets are old, too thin. That’ll be my excuse when I ask Papa for coin to buy new bedding. Still, he won’t be happy about it. It’s not like we’re poor, though. Papa’s stipend as a Lord’s musician has always been enough to take good care of us. I’m sure Tamtan’s other apprentices resent me partly because of that. None of their fathers are musicians of the calibre of Papa.
I shove all the bedding away. Too hot. The dry season is usually scorching in Aquila, but this is the worst I remember. Good thing Rowan isn’t here – she’d find it harder to take than me. Sister, where are you now? I should have defied Papal, snuck away and joined the caravan to travel with you.
Most of my life I’ve done what Papa wanted or argued him round to my side. Man and boy living together, we didn’t always agree, but sorted things out and I was happy enough. That changed after Rowan came. And now she’s gone again, who knows for how long? Life should be easier, but it isn’t.
The dream. Was it about Rowan? Maybe she’s in danger. I scramble out of bed, dragging the bedding to the floor and leaving it. Rummage in the wooden chest at the foot of my bed and pull out the silver circlet of linked ivy leaves, slip it onto my wrist. Mysterious, magical bracelets that came from our parents, one each. I thump to the floor, struggle with my unruly legs, then settle. Close my eyes and think of my sister; picture her long hair, dark like Papa’s, her grey eyes that I’ve been told are like our mother’s. My concentration slips.
I’ll never see Mother again, can’t even remember her. Did I call her Mama? Did she ever sing to me? Maybe I got my musical abilities from her as well as Papa. I was too young when Papa and I left her and Rowan. And Mother’s been dead for over a year now.
I scratch an itchy toe. Tailfeathers! Better cut my toe nails before they do more damage. Get clothes on. The house is quiet though I can tell by the angle of the sun shining through my window that it’s still early. Papa’s either asleep or gone already to the river bank, to the old barracks of the Lord’s Militia. They’ve been mostly empty for years, the grounds allowed to grow wild, but Papa and his musician friends along with other artists of Aquila are changing that. They’ve joined designers, stone masons, carpenters and labourers to turn the dilapidated buildings into an arts school.
I sneak across the landing and peek into his room. No Papa, bed made neatly, bedding stretched tight as a drum head. It was under that bed I found my bracelet. Papa’s really, but it had abandoned him. He wasn’t happy about that.
I rattle down the stairs. No Papa anywhere. Why didn’t he wake me this morning as he’s been doing ever since Rowan left? Drag me along as usual with him to the school when I don’t have other duties. Not that I’m sorry to be left at home. At the building site I’d just be hanging around waiting for someone to find tasks for me: carrying tools, cutting grass, cutting brush. Scut work is no fun and not that good for a musician’s hands.
I search for a note. Today is supposed to be my day for working with Papa – composing, playing the flutes, cleaning and repairing them if necessary. If he doesn’t come back for that’ll be the third lesson we’ve missed since Rowan went. The arts school is important, but so am I!
The food cupboards hold bread, honey, butter, a bit of cheese, figs. I’m not really hungry yet. Why didn’t he leave me a note? Even to say, practise the flute or go get more food. “You’re old enough to figure that out for yourself.” That’s what he’d say, and it’s true. I’m not stupid and he’s never said that I am. But we used to talk more, spend more time together.
I wander into the living room. One of the big woven baskets the women from the Grasslands People brought sits there, full of sheet music. Papa copied some, but I did most of it. I leaf through a few sheets, put them back, finger the basket. It’s really well made. They could sell these for a good price in the market here.
The Grasslands People wanted help to find some missing children. That’s what Rowan’s gone to do, and I know they helped her when she was trying to find Papa and me so I guess she felt she owed them. Still, it seems odd that they couldn’t look for the children themselves. Would Rowan have gone if she’d been happier with us? Maybe my fault.
I’ll try again to talk to my sister. Sit, breathe deeply, touch the bracelet, close my eyes and concentrate. Sometimes that will work and I get some kind of picture, but today I wait until my knees start to cramp and my arms itch. No visions. Weird that I had that dream and now nothing. Still so much to learn about how and why the bracelets work and why they don’t. Was my dream influenced by the bracelet even though I wasn’t touching it or was it just an ordinary strange dream? No answers just sitting here and now my belly’s rumbling.
I’m munching bread and cheese when there’s a rat-tat at the door. Hope its Ali from across the street. I haven’t seen her in a couple of days and she’s always working on something interesting; I could help her, though I should practise the flute. A boy stands outside, a messenger from Papa: he does want me at the river bank.
